


If You Wanna Find Love

by cantgetnoworse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, Closeted Character, Drug Use, Infidelity, M/M, Previous Toxic Relationship, Religion, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Build, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantgetnoworse/pseuds/cantgetnoworse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Bradford reminds Zayn of the quiet, introverted boy he used to be, going to the mosque every Friday with his dad and having more cousins than friends, and suddenly Harry feels more like a threat than a promise.</i> </p><p>Uni!AU where Zayn tries to reconcile who he is with who he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Wanna Find Love

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. I don't even know what to say. The seed for this story was planted in August of last year, which is just shy of six months now. It's gone through so, so many incarnations and rough drafts, seemingly endless transformations and reformations. It's come incredibly close to not existing in moments of self-doubt and frustration, but it was rescued time and time again, and I am so glad for that. I don't think I've ever worked so tirelessly on something before, writing from the gut, and I can honestly say it's my baby and I'm proud to be posting it now.
> 
> Thank you to [polishedstone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/polishedstone) for always, always encouraging me to keep going even when I didn't want to, to [thediamondskies](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thediamondskies) who made me feel renewed bursts of excitement over this fic, and, as always, to my beta and forever support [sunfair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfair) who's been there since the very first moment I said the dreaded words, 'I have an idea!' I won't name everyone else, but just know that if you ever said 'proud of you' or 'keep going' or 'I can't wait to read it', you played an invaluable part in me continuing to write this. I hope you get something out of it.
> 
>   
>  _“I didn’t want to be in love with you. I didn’t want to believe in love at all. It’s never happened to me before. And to be perfectly frank, I’m still not entirely happy about the whole thing. I think it’s going to be exhausting." ― Shana Abe, Queen of Dragons_   
> 

It starts when Zayn finds Harry in the toilets at Splash, banging his head back against the wall.

He'd been watching him earlier, Damien plastered along Harry's spine, Harry's head lolling back against his shoulder, collarbones glimmering obscenely and shirt sticking to him with sweat. The two had disappeared from the dance floor with their mouths attached, and Zayn had assumed they'd just gone off to some dark, depraved corner like always, but not this. 

Harry is alone in here, back to the tile, shaking like a leaf. It's the kind of shaking that's bone-deep and scary to see, every bit of him vibrating, even his teeth. His shirt is plastered to him properly now, soaked through like it must be uncomfortable against his skin. His hair is wet and smeared across his forehead, his cheeks splotched an ugly shade of pink, but the rest of him is pale as a sheet. His biceps are bulging with his arms held rigidly behind his back, as if he's restraining himself.

When Zayn steps closer and holds Harry's face in his hands, he finds his eyes blown black.

'Fuck. Bismillah. Bismillah,' Zayn mutters breathlessly, heart clenching with worry. 'You absolute fucking idiot.'

Harry doesn't say anything. He just makes a pathetic little sound and nods like he agrees. He bangs his head back against the wall in small staccato thumps and shuts his eyes, muttering an apology over and over again that sounds scared and faraway, just like the rest of him.

'What did you take?' Zayn asks, curling a hand around the base of his throat. Harry's pulse is erratic where Zayn's thumb lands, and Zayn realizes through a sudden rush of blood to his ears that so is his own.

'Ec-ec-' Harry stops, shivering bodily as his teeth clatter once, keeping him from speaking. He holds himself more stiffly, more adamantly, forcing the word through gritted teeth. 'Ecstasy.'

Zayn heaves a trembling breath. 'Fucking hell, Harry. Pill or powder?'

Harry swallows, Adam's apple bobbing visibly. A bead of sweat starts at his temple and ends near his ear. 'Powder.'

The rumour of a bad batch going around London knocks about Zayn's head until he's dizzy with it, making him exhale a whoosh of air. 'You absolute fucking idiot.'

Harry takes his hands out from behind his back, then, squeezes his eyes shut and presses the heels of his palms against them and says, ' _Zayn._ '

It sounds like a plea. There's a quiver to Harry's chin that's independent of the one shaking his entire body, like he might cry.

'You're gonna be okay,' Zayn whispers, quiet, pulling him off the wall and against his body. 'You're gonna be okay.'

It takes Zayn all night to make sure of it.

\--

Zayn isn't stupid.

His first year Renaissance professor used to call him _astute_. His mum always said that nothing could ever get past him, even as a toddler. His mate Danny spent ages clapping him on the back and introducing him to new friends as the Will Hunting of Bradford.

Zayn's always been attentive to a sodding fault, is the thing. So when his friendship with Harry starts to change, it's as obvious to him as the one time Samantha Bisek kept asking him for help with her Maths homework even though she was an A* student and Zayn barely managed a B.

It isn't that Harry and him weren't close before that night at Splash. Zayn considers Harry and the other boys his chosen family, his home away from home, the four brothers he managed to pick up along the way since his move to London. It's just that Harry and him were never close enough for Zayn to feel his absence in the moments when he’s gone.

Louis was the first of the boys Zayn met. They were stood in the start-of-year queue at the uni bookshop, Zayn lost in thought amongst the inane chatter of students. Louis turned to him with an exasperated huff that blew his fringe upwards. As if they already knew each other, he held Zayn's gaze and went off about how high the cost of textbooks was. 

'Innit, mate?' he said. 'Starting to doubt whether the Police were pulling me leg when they said I wouldn't have to sell my body to the night.'

Zayn had to do a double-take of their surroundings to make sure that the frazzled-looking stranger with the blue eyes and a tower of books in his arms was, in fact, quoting Sting to him. Louis' eyebrows knitted together when Zayn didn't respond and he said, 'Y'know, like, Roooooxannnnnne...?' and that was that.

Louis got him through the first few full-on months of university social life, with his loud, magnetic persona soaking up any unwanted attention whenever he and Zayn went out together, allowing Zayn's anxiety to settle into a manageable, microscopic sort of buzz beneath his skin.

From there, Louis introduced Zayn to Liam and Niall, both of whom were in one of Louis' group projects and had instantly become two of his closest friends. First year of university was like that for most people, Zayn noticed, lending itself to quick friendships because everyone was so far from home and excited to dump their A-level pals for the cool crowd. Not for Zayn, though. Zayn still texted Danny everyday and kept to himself nine times out of ten, and if it weren't for Louis physically dragging him out of bed some days, he might never have befriended anyone this city had to offer.

The first time Zayn met Harry was when he modelled for one of Zayn's figure drawing classes, standing comfortably nude in the middle of the room in a way that made Zayn queasy with some unidentifiable emotion, pencil slip-sliding between his fingers with sweat. Zayn didn't know anything about him beyond the way that his sculpted waist dipped into his narrow hips and the way his feet pointed inwards rather than straight ahead. 

After class one day, he sidled up to Zayn in nothing but a pair of jeans with the fly undone, his wrists stuck into his shirt's arm holes though he made no move to pull the garment over his head. He peered over Zayn's shoulder and said, 'Nice drawing, mate.' The unexpected depth of his voice shocked Zayn speechless, but he eventually managed to respond with some variation of _unnghhh_ as his ears went warm, and then Harry was gone.

The second time they met was when they were at the campus pub. It was just Zayn and the other three at first, but before he knew it, Harry was right there, hugging Louis so tightly they swayed with the force of it, because of course Louis knew him. The two of them were too tipsy to properly explain the origin of their friendship, but Louis introduced him as _my best mate, Harry_ and that's what he became known as. Not the nude boy from class that made Zayn want to take another one of his heart palpitation tablets behind his easel, but Louis' best mate, Harry.

So when things start to change, now, Zayn notices. Ever since he listened to Harry sticking two fingers down his throat in a grotty disabled toilet, shoulders shaking until nothing but stomach acid was coming up, Harry has been noticeably keener on being in Zayn's presence.

He pops by the uni art studio unannounced with a smile and a blueberry scone an average of three times a week, dismissing the NO FOOD OR BEVERAGES sign plastered on the door. He usually hugs Zayn, gives him the paper bag of goodies from the bakery, and then surveys his painting with his eyebrows furrowed and his lip between his teeth. After, he sits at one of the empty tables in the back and does his work in silence, one earbud tucked in and head in his textbooks. But even just the smell of his vanilla bean body spray -- body mist? Lotion? Deodorant? -- infiltrating Zayn's space proves distracting. Besides, birds love to ask Harry 'is this seat taken?' before starting to flirt with him within earshot, and it’s grating at best to listen to.

Zayn's learnt that Harry doesn't give a sod about the attention, though. It's the company he craves. Zayn can't bring himself to refuse him that, not after he realizes the subpar sort of company Damien and his lot of useless friends provide him with. Zayn trains himself to ignore the weight of Harry's gaze on him every time Harry becomes interested in what he's up to at his easel and, before he can grasp what's happening, he starts to crave the company, too.

He picks up on other changes after that. Harry starts to update him via text with random trivia he finds fascinating or the mundane details of his day, like: _Had a bran muffin today 'cos I was trying to be good, but I got a single chocolate chip in it. How strange is that?? Thank god I'm not allergic. :) Xx_

Harry doesn't seem too concerned about the fact that Zayn seldom responds to any of it. Zayn finds that he likes his phone buzzing all the time, anyway, if only because it means that some afternoons he'll wake up from a kip that's left him feeling bleak and heavy to a text that says nothing but _Did you know that octopuses have THREE hearts?! So if you break one, they'll be fine starting over with the other two. Aww. Xx_.

Tuesdays become theirs, somehow. Before, Zayn would go home at 2pm after his Philosophy of Religion lecture, but then Harry compares their schedules and finds out that if he starts coming to campus at 2pm when Zayn is done with class, they can spend an hour for lunch together before Harry has to dash off to his Modern Theatre lecture at 3.

If the weather allows it, they sit outside so Zayn can smoke in the quad while Harry picks blades of grass from the ground so he can try -- and fail -- to whistle through them. Once it starts pissing down, they burrow inside one of the student lounges, sharing their containers of food and chatting unhurriedly, never in a rush to part ways.

Harry does most of the talking. His syrupy voice takes an eternity to carry his stories from start to finish, but Zayn finds himself amused by it more than anything. Some days, Harry will tell Zayn all about his debauched weekends through a cheeky smirk. Other days, he'll tell Zayn bigger, more important things, like how his mum, Anne, wants to save enough money to open a bakery in Cheshire and hand it over to Harry when he graduates. _A baker with a degree in film,_ he'll say, cheek dimpling but tone laced with self-deprecation. _How typical._

It doesn't happen every time, but occasionally, Zayn will feel compelled to share something, too. He'll show Harry tidbits of his life, like his dad's artwork that he has saved on his mobile because it inspires his own, or Doniya's sketching style that's so different to his. Harry will light up like he's being given the keys to the universe in those moments, so unguarded in his enthusiasm, and Zayn will try to keep the inexplicable enormity of it from overwhelming him.

But the innocuous changes between them morph into larger, more terrifying ones, until Zayn is out of his depths trying to catch up.

Harry starts to call him, late at night, and that's always serious. If it isn't, Zayn knows he would've just texted or harassed Louis instead. But he doesn't text or harass Louis when Damien hasn't come home to their flat in three nights and won't take any of Harry's calls, Harry just drunk enough off wine to want Zayn to talk him down over the line.

He doesn't text or harass Louis when he needs to tell someone that Gemma said their mum's got to have surgery to remove a benign cyst on her ovaries, something he's so upset about that he can't stop shaking with it.

And, for whatever reason, he doesn't text or harass Louis when he needs a place to stay for the night, showing up on Zayn's doorstep with a sheepish, watery smile and a small trail of finger-shaped bruises on the insides of his wrists.

Zayn isn't stupid. He really, truly isn't. But for the life of him, he doesn't know how they wind up where they are.

\--

Harry rings Zayn late one night to ask if he can stay over a few days and not just the one.

There's a tremor in his voice when he asks, and his question is followed by a telling snuffle that's enough to break Zayn's heart clean in two. He imagines who could've dared to say no to Harry before in situations like this to make him sound so hesitant, like he’s a burden, and the sudden wave of protectiveness he feels makes his knuckles whiten around his mobile.

'Yeah, mate,' is all he can say. 'Yeah, s'long as you need.'

Within the hour, Harry is stood in Zayn's doorway, pigeon-toed and struggling beneath the weight of his belongings. A faded brown bag is pulled over his shoulder with the zipper broken midway to reveal a mess of clothing and textbooks. His hands are full, too; he has his cracked leather journal and a fountain pen in one, and, inexplicably, a Minnie Mouse lunch bag in the other.

Zayn raises his eyebrows, and Harry's face breaks into a weak smirk. 

'Toiletries.'

Zayn can't do anything but huff out an incredulous laugh, holding the door open wider. Harry's curls are shoved messily beneath a beanie and his eyes are rimmed red; he's clearly about to fall apart, but he's still very much _Harry_. Zayn's panic settles at the realization that not much could change that.

They don't talk about why he's there, yet. Zayn is almost out of groceries, but he makes them a cheese toastie and soup to share while Harry slips out of his beanie, coat and boots, chucking his stuff aside. Zayn tries not to trace his every move with his eyes like a fretting mother. 

They eat in silence, but when they're done, Harry won't stop fidgeting on his end of the sofa. He keeps tugging at his curls like they're bothering him, gnawing at his thumb's hangnail like he's trying to draw blood. Zayn feels tense and uncomfortable just watching him, so he packs them a tight bowl using the last of his weed in hopes it will help. Harry only takes a few hits for fear of aggravating his asthma, but he's more relaxed afterward, his eyes going soft and peaceful, redder around the edges.

He crawls over to Zayn's end of the sofa to settle against his side, maneuvering Zayn's arm around him. If it weren't for the drugs clouding Zayn's judgement, he might've gone stiff beneath the unexpected closeness, but as it is, he just sinks lower into the sofa and lets Harry's warmth bleed into him.

'You're so good,' Harry says, his voice rasping over the words.

Zayn steals a curious glance at him, but Harry isn't looking back. His eyes are heavy-lidded and set on the TV that's playing The Avengers nearly on mute. 

Zayn looks back at the screen. 'Am I?'

Harry nods, a hint of a movement against Zayn's shoulder. 'Mmm.'

Zayn makes a vague sound for lack of anything else to say, and when Harry snuggles even closer, his heart hammers at the faintest touch of sweaty curls to his lips. He feels the same way he did behind his easel, seeing Harry's bare skin on display for the first time and going queasy, only this time the sensation is intensified, coiling right in the middle of his belly.

'You're not bad yourself,' he mumbles belatedly, words tumbling past his lips of their own accord.

Harry turns to nuzzle his face into Zayn's armpit, everything going surreally still for a moment, the smoky air around them loaded and thick. Zayn can feel Harry's shoulders start to shake, and for a moment he's terrified at the thought of Harry crying again, but then he realizes with a start that Harry's _laughing_. He's laughing so hard that Zayn can feel spit bubbling out against his shirt where Harry's mouth is split in a smile. Zayn squawks indignantly once his brain registers the sensation, squirming away and admonishing Harry with a shove that has him toppling sideways into the other end of the sofa.

'You're disgusting,' Zayn complains, but he can't help but feel secretly endeared as he pulls at the damp sleeve of his shirt away from his body to examine the damage.

Harry smiles, wiping his lips. 'You made me laugh.'

'I didn't even say anything funny, you idiot,' Zayn says, words void of conviction. 'Go get changed for bed. It's nearly one in the morning.'

Harry groans and flops back, making a show of playing dead on the sofa, his eyes shut and his body boneless. He’s eventually forced to give up the petulancy act when Zayn reaches over to ruffle a handful of his curls and says, ‘Well, if you’re dead, might as well chop these locks off and donate them to charity.’ Harry’s arm flies out defensively as he lets out a horrified gasp, muttering something like ‘you wouldn’t’ before finally pushing to his feet with a pout and wandering over to his bag.

Zayn starts toward the kitchen with their crumby plates moments after, but an expanse of bare skin and flexing muscles from near his bed catches his eye before he can get very far. His pulse jumps, keeping him firmly rooted in place. Zayn's seen Harry naked before, has _drawn_ him naked before, so this -- seeing him change in plain sight of him -- shouldn't feel any different, but somehow, it does. The lights are all off save for the glow of the TV, though the darkness does little to dampen the heat in his stomach.

Zayn is desperate to kill the moment with an inane comment, about to snipe that _there's a washroom right there, you know_ when something new catches his eye, and the words die on his tongue. He squints, eyes tracing the faint yellow shape that grows greener near the centre of Harry's back. He barely gets a good look at it before it's gone, covered by Harry's sleep shirt, and Zayn feels winded by the flash-quick glimpse of what couldn't be anything but a bruise.

Harry turns around and tangles a hand in his hair, looking distracted for a moment, clearly oblivious to the fact that he was being watched. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees Zayn stood across the flat with two plates in his hands, fixing him with a meaningful stare.

'Fuck,' Harry mutters, quiet and thin. The air comes out of his lungs in a slow exhalation. 'It's -- it's not -'

'Is that what he does?' Zayn interrupts with a shrug, pointing a plate towards him vaguely. 'He hits you?'

Harry flinches, taking a step back. 'He doesn't hit me.'

'You walked into a door backwards, then?'

'More like a wall,' Harry says sharply, sounding the slightest bit defensive, but the edge to his voice doesn't last. 'We were drunk. I know what you're thinking, but it's not like that between us. He's a prick, but he doesn't hit me. We have a bit too much fun sometimes, is all.'

'Clearly.'

'Zayn,' Harry says, soft and pleading. 'Please, just. Don't.'

Zayn licks his lips and considers him for a moment. Harry looks fragile, worn thin, and his shoulders are pulled taut like maybe he's holding his breath. Zayn relents despite himself. The conversation can wait until Harry's sturdier on his feet.

'I'll get you a glass of water to keep by you in the night.'

'Thank you,' Harry says, his chest expanding slowly in a display of relief.

The residual tension between them dissipates by the time they're both settling in to sleep, their combined exhaustion winning over. Zayn curls into bed and Harry stays on the sofa, each of them with a glass of ice water nearby. Zayn drops off sooner than he thought he would be able to, typically kept awake by the sound of Harry breathing whenever he stays over. Sleep settles deep into his bones, though, the dull buzz of the weed helping him rest quick and easy.

He doesn't know how long it lasts before he's woken up by the soft pitter-patter of Harry's footsteps and the sensation of him climbing into bed behind him.

'Zayn?'

Zayn hums, noncommittal.

'This okay?' Harry murmurs. 'Can't sleep.'

Zayn doesn't say anything for a while, his senses still clouded with sleep, but he eventually musters enough willpower to shift onto his back and crack an eye open at Harry. He's sitting on his knees, lip pulled beneath his teeth, looking entirely too young.

Zayn nods after a while, shifting to make room, and Harry takes a shaky breath of relief as he follows his movements. He handles the duvet with care so he can climb underneath it, adjusting himself until he has his back to Zayn, an expectant air surrounding them.

Zayn eyes the broad expanse of Harry's back and waits for instruction. When he doesn't get any, he asks, 'Won't that hurt?'

Harry shakes his head, voice trembling. 'It'll be fine.'

Zayn wavers for a beat longer, staring at the point between Harry's shoulder blades, but he gives in through the haze of his weariness. He shifts closer until he's pressed against the line of Harry's back, wrapping an arm around his middle and nudging his nose over the top of his spine. Harry shivers beneath his touch, but Zayn’s arms tighten to steady him.

It'll be fine.

\--

Harry doesn't seem like an intruder. 

For all his towering height and ungainly limbs that have cost Zayn a potted plant, a framed picture of his sisters, and two mugs, Harry has this nonthreatening sort of presence, radiating a saccharine warmth that is decidedly unique to him. He stays over for so long that it starts to feel like his name's on Zayn’s lease.

Zayn doesn't mind it. His flat is a tiny one, just one chunk of space partitioned into vague sections. The front door opens directly into the sitting area, which contains his sofa, coffee table and a television mounted on the wall. The bed is set up facing the back of the sofa, so close he could watch television from his mattress if he fancied. 

The sofa, as it is, starts to become Harry’s ‘zone’, his textbooks cracked open over the armrests and highlighters tucked between the cushions, food crumbs stuck inside the fabric because Harry can never eat like a normal human being, has to slobber all over his meals and feed half of them to the furniture. At night, Harry sleeps on his stomach, helping the contusions on his back heal until Zayn can watch him change out of his shirt in the mornings without clenching his jaw.

It doesn’t get bad often, but when it does -- when Harry's teeth chatter even though the rest of him is feverish and sweating -- Zayn lets him climb into his bed and into the circle of his arms, holding him close until his bones stop rattling.

In the same way, Zayn’s knotted chest loosens each time he comes home from a long day at uni or a tough shift at the bookstore to find Harry, all five-foot-nine him in nothing but low-slung trackies rolled up at the waist, his dimple carved out of his cheek like someone had dipped their finger in whipped cream and left a half-crescent crevice behind. He usually greets Zayn with a koala hug -- all clinging limbs and cold nose rubbing against his throat -- or a wet kiss on the cheek. He’ll have something prepared, like a club turkey sandwich to share or a nearly-burnt rice and chicken curry he cooked off an online recipe, ready and waiting for Zayn.

Zayn's content with it. He’s even content to let Harry strew his toiletries haphazardly all over the bathroom counter and leave his dirty clothes in a pile next to the sofa for days before he finally dumps them into the laundry hamper. He’s content with letting Harry underestimate his own strength as he starfishes on top of Zayn in bed like a brick and demands a cuddle, knocking the breath out of him until he complies. Zayn even lets Harry blow a raspberry on his stomach when he knows he’s feeling particularly cheeky or restless, only protesting on principle when the spit first hits his belly.

Despite the fact that Zayn can’t attempt a quiet night in with his kindle anymore without the sound of something breaking in the kitchen and Harry’s long, sheepish apology following seconds later, Harry doesn’t, not for a moment, feel like an intruder.

\--

It's been an endless night of unproductivity and blocked inspiration, the kind that makes Zayn's temples throb, the place between his eyebrows pulsing. The kind that makes him doubt his decision to study art instead of something that can actually be _taught_ , just like his dad said -- architecture or engineering or bloody graphic design.

He abandoned the studio early in a huff, leaving half his paint tubes uncapped on purpose because he knew they’d dry out and he felt like he deserved that -- he felt like he deserved to sabotage himself, a bit, like he had it coming for being so useless. Just to add insult to injury, and just because he was feeling a bit sorry for himself, he chain-smoked an entire pack of Marlboros on the walk home, punishing his lungs and leaving them aching for real air. 

He's feeling so rough by the time he gets to his building that he's even considering initiating a cuddle with Harry himself for once, if he's home and up for it. It never comes to that, usually. Harry’s always impatient about snuggling up next to Zayn before Zayn has really even settled in for the night, but today Zayn’s feeling like maybe he’ll be the one to ask for Harry to sit closer. The promise of having another body near enough to soak up all this nervous energy is making him feel lightheaded with anticipation, needy for that sort of relief.

He jogs upstairs to his hallway and miraculously, when he turns his key in his door, the lock doesn’t jam. Zayn’s muttering a thank you to the gods above, just about to push inside when something catches his ear. He bows his head closer to the door, narrowing his eyes in concentration. It takes a while, an embarrassing while, until he realizes what he’s actually listening to. To anyone walking by, he’d look like a complete creep, standing with his ear to the door as the sound of someone moaning seeps through, long and low and continuous, as if they've been injured. His heart thumps in his chest at the first breathy hint of it, becoming louder and more pronounced.

That’s Harry's groan, and he’s definitely not injured. 

Zayn feels winded at the realization that on the other side of the door, the other side of _his_ door, Harry's likely jerking himself off. He knows, logically, that it's perfectly normal; everyone has needs, he bloody well has needs, and he wouldn't begrudge Harry the desire to satisfy his own. He probably hadn’t expected Zayn home for a while yet. 

Zayn feels stupidly guilty about it. He waits and waits and waits for the sound to subside, but it ebbs and flows and never ends, making Zayn increasingly restless. He knows he can't stay outside his own flat forever, not when he's already feeling so uneasy, the night weighing in on him, heavy and unforgiving. He'll just tell Harry to carry on and go straight into the loo to run himself a bath until the noises stop, and neither of them will ever bring it up again. It's as solid a plan as he's going to manage, considering the state of his brain. 

He carefully cracks the door open and sidesteps inside, steeling himself to be quick and light-footed and apologetic, but everything seems to freeze around him the moment he looks up.

He doesn't know what he'd been expecting to see -- or he does, he knows exactly what someone getting themselves off looks like, long fingers tugging tirelessly as they chase their release -- but that's not what greets him. Instead, there’s Harry, the same Harry he’d been considering asking for a cuddle minutes ago, making those same wounded, punched-out noises he’d heard through the door, with his back coming off the sofa and his cock buried to the hilt in Damien’s mouth.

Zayn's cheeks sting like he's been smacked with a gust of harsh wind. He's rooted in his entryway, eyes trying and failing to adjust to the near darkness of the flat, to the dimmed image of Harry squirming and thrashing and begging beneath his ex-boyfriend's lips, sounding like he might cry. Zayn’s vision swims out of focus. He feels like he’s seeing a grainy scene from a bootlegged film playing out in front of him, something chopped and blurry and unclear, something that isn’t his own friend getting sucked off in his apartment. On his sofa. The same sofa he doesn't even shag birds on himself when he's gagging for it. Zayn can’t process more than one thought at a time. He tries to work his way through his muddled mind to a place of coherence, but the only thing that sticks is _my mum has slept right there, you absolute fucking pricks._

Stupidly, Zayn had thought that maybe letting Harry stay over would help him, help him regain his confidence and sense of self, help him get past this phase of _having too much fun, is all_. He can't reconcile the Harry pulling his toothbrush out of his Minnie Mouse lunch bag and leaving toothpaste to dry in Zayn’s sink every morning with _this_ Harry, the one with a fistful of dirty blonde hair clenched in his fingers, the one bucking his hips upward to fuck into someone else's mouth, the one whimpering like he's dying from sensation.

Zayn's mind is overcome with static for a while, blanking out like it’s been numbed to protect him from reacting. He wants to ask Harry if he even hesitated before inviting Damien into his home. Did he consider the things Zayn has had to sacrifice to be able to call these four walls his own, or was the promise of getting off more important?

It’s so quiet for a while that Zayn doesn't even realize Harry is climaxing until an ungodly sound tears through the apartment like thunder, filling it from corner to corner, making it difficult to breathe around. When Zayn's vision stops swimming, he can see it with his own eyes, the way Harry transforms from desperate to sated, shaking and spent with his release, fingers flexing as they release Damien’s hair. The deadweight of him sinks and merges into Zayn's sofa as he pants, basking visibly in post-orgasmic bliss, his head lolling onto his shoulder when Damien moves up his body to suck bruises into his neck, and that's when it happens. That's when Harry sees him, their eyes meeting across the room, making bile rise up to Zayn's throat in an instant.

The short-lived euphoria that was liquefying Harry's eyes, making him look like a heroin addict after his first hit, disappears, turning to a wild, wide-eyed panic within the span of a sharp inhale. He shoves Damien off by the shoulders, knees him in the ribs and kicks him in the thigh. Only then does Damien look up to see Zayn, too. Zayn doesn't move an inch as he watches them do an awkward dance of trying to figure out which boxer briefs belong to whom, thrusting articles of clothing at each other in a rush, and then Damien is leaving, a whiff of aftershave and something that is so maddeningly _Harry_ following him out the door. Zayn's not a violent person, but in that moment, he wants to punch his teeth out.

Harry stands perfectly still in front of the sofa, and Zayn becomes absorbed by the stifling stillness of the flat. He wonders why the lights are all off; did it make Harry feel better about himself, not being able to actually see himself make a huge fucking joke of Zayn’s home?

He must say some variation of that out loud, because in the next breath, Harry takes a step forward and keens breathlessly in apology. He's hugging himself so tightly, like he has to make an effort to keep his bones from bursting out of his body and taking flight, and Zayn thinks he feels the opposite. His bones feel stuck, like they need to be oiled just to get them to move again.

He doesn't know what to say, or whether to trust his voice. He licks his dried lips and surveys his flat -- the boarded up window restricting the moonlight from coming in too strong, the bed still undone from when Zayn woke up in it, the sofa probably warm to the touch and smelling like Harry.

'I'm so sorry,' Harry finally says, his voice catching on the words, barely audible. 'I'll go, okay? Don't be mad. Please don’t be mad.'

Zayn can't bring himself to look him in the eye. He knows that whatever expression Harry's affecting probably has the ability to bring him to his knees and make him forget why he should be angry in the first place. That bothers him more than anything else, that he can't stand to look at Harry, that he has to look at a spot over his shoulder instead, the blank wall that makes his retinas burn.

He wants to tell him to go. He wants to snipe something ugly and biting like, ‘Yeah, that’s probably best, Harry.’ What happens instead is that he tells him to stay the night, and that he should leave the key under the mat when he's gone in the morning.

\--

'Oi! Earth to fucking Malik,' Niall calls out, throwing a peanut at Zayn's head. 'You even listening, mate?'

Zayn takes another chug of beer, suddenly dying for the cold slide of it against his dry throat. He lowers it to the table and coughs into his fist. He hasn't been listening, truthfully, too busy wondering where Harry is and if he's really going to join them like Louis had said he would. It’s been a week of avoidance, a week of Zayn ‘accidentally’ letting his phone die, a week of staying at the studio painting deep into the night because he doesn’t want to go home to an empty flat and remember why there’s no one else there.

He knuckles at the scruff on his chin, fixing his eyes on Niall apologetically. 'Sorry, bro, what were you saying?'

'Said that bird is here,' Liam fills in for him with a half-smirk, elbows on the table and fingers peeling the label off his beer as he nods towards the bar. 'Green eyes, purple lip, the one you've been eying for ages.'

'Your chance, bro,' Louis sing-songs. 'She's looking lovely, as always. Really nice bum, I have to say.'

'Here, here,' Niall agrees. 'A worthy love interest if I've ever seen one.'

'Whatevs,' Zayn dismisses, lifting his beer back to hover by his lips, but he knows exactly who they're talking about. 'Contrary to Liam's beliefs, one date does not a love interest make.'

Liam scrunches his eyes at him menacingly, but the smile is ever-present in them, and Zayn gives him an air kiss for good measure.

'You're subtle as a brick, babe, only going moon-eyed whenever she's around,' Louis smirks. 'Go on, then, maybe a quick shag will do you good, get your mind off that bloody art project of yours.'

Zayn pinches Louis thigh sharply. 'All class, Louis. And it's not a project, you know. It's a whole degree.'

Louis waves a dismissive hand. 'Class never gave anyone an orgasm, now, did it?'

Zayn ignores him. He glances over at the bar to check if she's really there, but struggles to find her through the mess of people vying to get alcohol poisoning before last call.

Her name is Marissa. Delicate, angular face and jet black hair that she always has tied up in a bun save for her stick-straight, eyebrow-level fringe. She's got a silver loop for a nose ring and white, white teeth, made even whiter by the purple lip colour she loves to wear, the same one she had on when he first met her at a petrol station near campus.

Her skintight black jeans had rivalled even Harry's that day, and her thick eyeliner ended in little upward dashes at the outer corner of each eye, like wings. He liked that her lipstick was the colour of grapes instead of the usual ruby red all the birds were wearing, but his favourite thing about her, maybe, was the baseball shirt she had on with Dr. Dre on the front, something he thought he would wear himself if it were a few sizes bigger.

She needed an extra 54 pence to complete her purchase of smokes and chocolate milk. Unthinkingly, Zayn dropped the exact amount of coins on the counter from where he was stood behind her, assuming he was being helpful. She turned her mossy green eyes onto him with a wary-looking smile, like she was dealing with an escaped mental patient rather than a well-meaning stranger. Zayn, realizing he was in fact a creepy eavesdropper who'd acted on impulse, flushed rouge and offered what he hoped was a nonthreatening, tight-lipped smile back.

He continued to chastise himself long after she left, buying himself his own pack of smokes and heading back toward campus. Embarrassment warmed his cheeks and neck; he hated making a fool of himself like that. It was all made worse by the fact that Marissa was perched on the edge of the fountain smack in the middle of his pathway having a fag, which meant he had to walk past her again. He kept his head ducked, hoping he would go unnoticed, but then:

‘Zayn?’

He froze unsurely, turning around to regard her with a curious look. She definitely said his name, and he definitely didn’t tell it to her earlier, unless he really was dealing with some mental issues other than the ones he already knew about.

‘Sorry?’ he asked.

‘We had -- we had a zine-making workshop together last year, I think. That was you, right?’

It _was_ him. The uncertainty from inside the petrol station began to subside bit by bit, and he felt oddly comfortable now that he knew the two of them actually shared a history, however brief and inconsequential it had been. 

She told him her name, then, cheekily asked him if he wanted some of her chocolate milk since he helped pay for it, and before Zayn knew it, he was skipping class to sit next to this stranger, the two of them talking about the zine-making workshop and Dr. Dre and, eventually, the underground hip-hop scene in London. It didn’t even seem weird that by the end of it, they managed to make arrangements to go on a maybe-date together to a poetry slam that weekend. They were both planning to go anyway, so why not enjoy each other's company?

She was incredibly pretty, smart and funny the night they went to the slam, so easygoing and self-assured and everything Zayn had to make an effort to pretend to be. People came up to her left and right to say hello -- people she knew, friends and acquaintances, and Zayn stood by her like an extra limb, introducing himself every once in a while and eventually forcing aloofness to stave off his creeping anxiety. The whole thing had left him consumed with hesitation that he wasn’t good enough for someone like that, someone who could just _be_ while he was stood there with his mind racing, wishing he would’ve stayed at home instead. 

He didn’t tell her any of that, of course, just fucked it all up by not calling or texting after without offering her any sort of explanation, a technique he was quite familiar with employing.

He's seen her around campus several times since, the boys needling information out of him whenever he goes clammy at the sight of her, but he usually avoids her eye like his life depends on it, offering up minimal information as to why. 

He scans the bar for her jet black hair one last time, but what he sees instead is Harry's head of knotted curls, his hands clutching the counter and his long body leaning over it to try and get the bartender's attention. It makes Zayn go clammy just the same.

He finishes off his pint in one go, first doing it as an excuse to leave for a smoke before Harry comes back to their table, but on second-thought, as an excuse to walk over to the bar and actually talk to him alone. This is going to be awkward either way, but it’ll be exponentially less so if he doesn’t have the other lads catching on to the nervous energy between them and butting their noses in where they don’t belong.

He grabs his jacket and excuses himself to the bar, his intentions clearly misunderstood by the rest of the table. He ignores the depraved hoots and hollers from the boys to 'get in, Bradford' -- including a spirited drumroll courtesy of Niall -- as he heads straight for Harry instead. He wrestles a cigarette out of his crushed pack and presses it between his lips, ignoring the sudden pounding of his pulse all over.

'Wanna come out back for a smoke with me?' 

Harry's head whips around so fast he has to lift a hand to massage the back of it, and Zayn wants to apologize for sneaking up on him, but his heart is too loud in his ears, and he can't bring himself to make small talk.

As soon as Harry recognizes who's next to him -- not just some random bloke trying to pick him up at the bar, but maybe even worse, the one who kicked him out of his flat last week -- his eyes go sharp.

'I -- I can't,' Harry says.

It feels like a punch in the gut. Zayn knows that this is a conversation neither of them are in a hurry to have, and he knows Harry avoids confrontation like disease, but he just figured --

‘Okay,’ Zayn nods with feigned indifference, pushing away from the bar. ‘Cool, no worries.’

Harry grabs his wrist quickly, tugging him back, and Zayn’s heart lurches to his throat at the contact. ‘No, Zayn, not like that,' he says under his breath. 'It's just, my asthma's been really bad lately and the smokers' area is always so...smoky. But we can go out front, if that’s alright?'

Right. Of course. Good to see Zayn is still, as always, an idiot.

'Front's fine, yeah. C'mon, grab your coat and we'll go, else you’ll freeze outside.'

Zayn’s wrist tingles when Harry sets it free. He waits for him, putting his own jacket on, jaw aching from keeping his cigarette between his teeth for so long. When Harry's back, they make their way through a sweaty cluster of people and to the exit, welcomed by a rush of cool air outside, immediately soothing on Zayn’s overheated skin.

Zayn leans against the exterior of the pub, watching Harry shrug his coat on a bit clumsily, and takes the unlit cigarette out from between his lips. 'You okay with me smoking, or?'

'No, no, s'fine,' Harry assures, gesturing at the area around them. 'It's just when there's too many people smoking, I start to feel a bit crap.'

Zayn nods in understanding, cupping a protective hand around the flame of his Bic as he inhales his first dizzying drag and brings the cigarette to life. He shoves the lighter back into his jeans, freeing up his hand to pull the fag away and blow a stream of grey in the opposite direction, an excuse to look away. He doesn’t know what to say, is the thing, didn’t think past asking Harry if he’d like to join him outside, and now here they are. His throat constricts uncomfortably as he tries to force words tumble out of his chest, but then:

'I'm sorry,' Harry says, sounding breathless with it. He even looks breathless when Zayn glances back at him unsurely, scanning his face, seeing the quick little puffs of white that are coming from Harry’s lips, an indication of how cold the air is around them and how erratic his inhale-exhale pattern has gone.

Zayn swallows hard, looking out to the middle distance, thumb flicking compulsively at the butt of his cigarette as he gathers his thoughts. 

'I know that.' Zayn does know. He's never once doubted Harry's sincerity. That’s never been the problem. 'There are reasons that I'm really, like. Just furious with you at the moment,' he continues. 'But I don't think they're what you're thinking.'

'I know,' Harry exhales in a whoosh. 'I know, I've been such a fucking tit since Damien and I-'

Zayn nods curtly. 'Yeah, you've been a massive fucking tit.'

'I know,' Harry repeats.

Zayn braces himself for the next bit, but he has to ask, forcing his voice to sound casual around another drag of smoke. 'Have you been seeing him, then?'

Harry doesn't say anything. He looks away and buries his hands deep into his coat pockets, pushing the material out from his abdomen. That's enough of an answer for Zayn. His jaw hardens as he glances down at his hand, flicking the ash again. 

'Okay,' he says, measured and slow. 'Have you gotten back together with him? Because I swear to God, Harry-'

'No, _no_ ,' Harry interrupts. 'I haven't. I swear I haven't. I've just.'

'You've just been fucking him.'

' _No._ '

'Sorry, what was it? 'Having a bit too much fun'?'

'Zayn.' He sounds exasperated. 'I haven't been sleeping with him.'

'Then?'

Harry takes a deep breath, looking flustered. He curls a hand in his hair and tugs, like he's trying to ground himself with the flash of pain. Zayn wants to bat his hand away.

'We -- ' Harry begins. 'I -- I sort of went back, for a couple of nights this week. To our -- to _his_ flat, because I didn't have anywhere else to go. I didn't want to put any of you out any more than I already had, and I just. I sort of missed him, so I went back, but it didn't take long for me to regret it. I'm not staying there anymore.'

Zayn's brows furrow again, and he can't help the tug of concern that twists him up from the inside. 'Where are you staying now, then?'

'Um, I found this hostel that I can sort of afford, because my cousin sort of owns it and he's giving me a deal,' Harry says. 'Just for now.'

'Haz,' Zayn sighs, his guard inching back up as he looks ahead at a car park on the other side of the road. 'You can't live out of a rucksack like bloody Huck Finn for the rest of your life. You're not a child or a bloody refugee. You've got to find a place of your own you can afford. A roommate. Whatever it takes.'

'I know,' Harry concedes in a rush, starting to sound desperate, like a broken record trying to play the song its actually meant to play. 'I've put my name down on the waiting list at Niall and Liam's shared house, and they said that they'll let me know if a room frees up.'

'Okay,' Zayn says, nodding. 'And until then?'

Harry shrugs a shoulder, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth and gnawing at it. His eyebrows are pulled together, but not in the way they usually are when he's focused intensely on something; instead, he looks unsure and a tad scared, like he's trying to figure out what he should be saying or feeling or acting like for Zayn's benefit.

Zayn doesn't want him to feel that way. He wants to hold him and scratch behind his ears until the doubt melts away from his features. He wants to murmur reassurances against his cheek until he goes boneless, kiss him on the corner of his mouth. The voice at the back of Zayn's head screams at him not to, reminds him that Harry needs to cut his palms on the gravel and learn how to heal his own wounds for once.

With another harsh drag from his cigarette, Zayn scrambles to gather his thoughts until he can choose just one, exhaling slowly as he works up the courage to utter it aloud.

'My mum sleeps on that sofa when she visits,' he finally says, feeling his neck heat up at the memory of Harry and Damien on it, unable to desensitize himself to the image despite his best efforts. 'I don't do anything there except eat, draw and sometimes nod off. I've never even fucking thought of touching myself sitting there, you know? It might sound odd to you, but it's -- it’s sort of sacred to me, a bit. Was the first thing I could buy with my own money.'

'Zayn,' Harry pleads quietly, a desperate, regretful shame shrouding his features, but Zayn shakes his head before Harry can apologize out loud.

'I'm not saying any of it to make you feel like shit, Harry. I don’t even want to say it. I just -- I want you to realize that some of us have boundaries that you might not understand, but you're not seventeen and fresh out of Cheshire anymore. You're almost graduated. We're _both_ almost graduated. Our choices matter, now. The things we do have real consequences and people get hurt when you just -- when you don't think.'

'I understand that,' Harry whispers, his voice frayed around the edges. 

The last thing Zayn wants is to push him to the point of tears. His heart aches at the idea of forcing Harry to fall apart outside of a pub like this, Harry whose asthma inhaler is more permanent to him than his place of residence, Harry who used to leave smiley faces and penis drawings in Zayn’s steamed up mirror after his showers, Harry who seems to want to be forgiven more than anything else.

Zayn flicks his cigarette to the ground and meets his eyes, giving him a single, meaningful nod. It's all it takes to communicate his desire for reconciliation, apparently, because Harry scrambles forward and folds Zayn up in a hug, makes a choked off sound of gratitude against his throat that feels almost like a kiss, holding him tighter than maybe he should. Zayn wraps his arms around his middle and pulls him closer, fingers splaying over his sides and feeling his muscles jump underneath, their feet and knees slotting together.

They cuddle against the unforgiving brick exterior of the pub for so long that Zayn's back starts to ache and his legs begin to fall asleep, the stench of smoke mixing in with the scent of vanilla bean until he's nauseated with it, but he doesn't let go. He waits instead for the frantic thump of their hearts to slow to something calmer and more familiar. He’s missed the feel of another body against his own, the comfort of not being alone. 

Everything else can wait.

 

***

 

When Lottie, Louis' sister and flatmate, goes up to Doncaster early for Christmas, Louis uses it as an excuse to throw himself a debauched birthday party. He likes to pretend to be sensible when his siblings are around, slipping into big brother mode with ease, but everyone knows, including Louis’ own mother who calls daily to check he’s still alive, that he’s anything but the voice of reason.

There are a half a dozen reminders to arrive to the party on time sitting in Zayn's phone, but predictably, he doesn’t. He’s still glued to the stool at his easel with his earbuds tucked in and blasting Big K.R.I.T. on full volume late into the night. The studio is accessible 24/7 to any third- or fourth-year art students who have an activated keycard, and even though the windows are cracked open a notch to ventilate the space and reveal the passage of time, Zayn often loses track of himself without realizing what hour it really is.

When he checks his phone at half-past midnight, there are a stream of increasingly intoxicated text messages from Louis demanding to know where he is, and, inexplicably, one blurry photo of Louis and Niall with their tongues sticking out that is captioned 'MILEY CYRUS BRRROOO !'

He chuckles under his breath and looks back at his canvas.

He can keep going, he knows he can, but the joints of his fingers ache for reprieve and Louis will have his head on a platter if he doesn't show up at all. Zayn wouldn’t do that to him, anyhow; he knows birthdays are important to Louis, and Louis is important to Zayn. It’s just that he left his bicycle locked up in front of his flat in favour of walking here earlier, and the thought of making his way up to the tube then riding eight stops to Louis' flat with a load of drunk teenagers exhausts him. Splurging on a taxi ride is only marginally more appealing an idea. He's in the middle of weighing his options when his phone vibrates in his hand, his screen flashing Harry's name at him.

Zayn furrows his eyebrows down at it, unplugging his headphones and getting his hand tangled in the cord as he picks up. 'Hello?'

'Zayn,' Harry says over loud, muffled music, and Zayn has to bite his tongue against his own amusement because he can tell just from the way Harry says his name that he's been having a good time of it with the liquor cabinet. 'Fuck, mate, where are you?'

'Art studio,' he supplies, glancing around at the empty space. 'Last one here.'

'You're always,' Harry hiccups, excusing himself away from the receiver before his voice returns. 'You're always at the bloody art studio. You need to -- you need to come here with me.'

Zayn raises his eyebrows, surrendering further to his smile. 'With you, specifically?'

Harry's eye-roll is practically audible down the line. ' _Yes_ , with me specifically. Come here, be with me.'

'You're spectacularly drunk, Harry.'

'And you're spectacularly not here with me.'

Zayn attempts a long-suffering sigh despite the pleasant warmth spreading through his chest. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, considering. 'And if I don't come at all, what do you reckon the damage will be?'

'Won't be too bad,' Harry says. 'Your head will look nice mounted on Louis' wall, right between all the family photos.'

Zayn laughs. Comfort bubbles through him, dampening the ache in his bones from sitting on a backless chair for too long. He looks down at his acrylic-stained nails and thinks pros and cons. Pros of going: Harry will be pleased with him and Louis even more so. Cons of going: he can't just go home, sleep and wake up with a clear, sober head tomorrow so he can start painting again straight away. He knows his answer already, but he lets the silence linger a bit just to see what Harry’s next move is.

'Zayn,' he says with conviction, clearly growing impatient when he doesn’t reply. 'I miss you, yeah? Fuck, come _be_ with me.'

Zayn bites his lip, eyes fluttering shut when his heart gives a particularly painful thump, jumping in his chest like it's been shocked by a jolt of electricity.

'Alright, Haz,' he says eventually, resolve melting away with ease. 'You think you'll be awake or even alive by the time I'm there?'

'I'll make a valiant effort. Just come, please,' Harry says, one final time. 'Come be with me.'

\--

Zayn gives Louis' door a customary knock when he arrives, toeing his shoes off to leave on the welcome mat outside along with everyone else's. If the number of pairs stacked up already is any indication, the Tomlinsons’ flat will be packed from corner to corner and covered in beer spills by now.

He squeezes his way inside to find he's exactly right, the stench of stale liquor and a thick sheet of body heat assaulting his senses. He also finds Louis stood on his coffee table, giving a predictably spirited toast. Zayn is certain it's not the first speech of the night -- not even Louis' first speech of the night, nor probably his last.

He shrugs off his jacket, scarf and gloves to dump them in Louis' bedroom, tucking a bagged bottle of wine beneath his armpit and rubbing his hands together to warm them up as he ventures back into the main room, seeing that the titillating speech is still going on. Everyone around them is hollering and cheering so loudly that Zayn has precisely no idea what words are coming out of Louis' mouth. Judging by his overzealous gesticulations that have liquid sloshing over the rim of his plastic cup, and the force with which everyone exclaims 'here, here!' and throws their shots back at the end of it, it must've been fairly epic.

Louis wobbles to the floor and straight into Zayn's arms afterwards, laughing as he wraps him up by his middle and bites his neck _hard_ , probably to reprimand him for being so late.

'You fucking arsehole,' he yells into Zayn's ear, but he sounds gleeful about it.

'We've got to stop meeting like this,' Zayn smirks, squeezing Louis against him with one arm and moving to kiss his temple.

'What, with you stone cold sober and me halfway to rehab?'

The words run together spectacularly in Louis’ messy state, but luckily, Zayn has long become fluent in sloshed best friend lingo. Louis breaks away to grab Zayn's face in both hands, fixing him with a look that he probably thinks is threatening, but is mostly just glassy and fond. 'You're an imbecile. It's like, four in the fucking morning. Where've you been? I’ve been _texting_ you. It’s my _birthday_. You’re my _best friend_.'

'It's barely past one, babe.' Zayn brandishes the paper bag he's carrying and gives it a shake, a shiny treat to distract with. 'Wine for the birthday boy?'

'Oh, fuck,' Louis groans, his eyes lighting up like it's Christmas and his birthday all at once. Which, well. It will be soon enough. 'You’re a true king, Malik. Go set it in the kitchen and don't come back out 'til - ‘til you're blackout drunk. I'm not being funny, Zayn. Your ability to -- to speak in sentences, it’s making me uncomfortable. It’s my _birthday_.’

Zayn rolls his eyes as Louis physically turns him away and pushes him into the crowd with clumsy fingers; he allows himself to be shoved until there's a wall of people between the two of them. Louis knows literally everyone in this city, Zayn’s sure of it. He cranes his head and attempts to get his bearings, squeezing himself through to the kitchen, holding his breath until he's free of the concentrated stink of body odor and beer.

He hesitates for a moment on where to set the wine bottle down, then decides to stash it away in Louis' top cupboard instead of leaving it next to the bottles scattered on the counter. It'll be a much-needed hair-of-the-dog treat for the host come the treacherous morning after; he’ll text him to let him know where it is.

There are a few cartons of juice that have already been emptied of their contents -- some have been emptied of their contents all over the floor, and that will certainly be fun to clean up with a hangover -- but one is still blessedly half-full. Zayn is in the middle of mixing himself a light drink -- cranberry juice with a splash of vodka -- when he feels a pair of arms wrap around his middle, squeezing him in a vice grip as though they've forgotten their own strength.

It barely takes Zayn a moment to recognize who the hold belongs to, the familiar scent of vanilla bean flooding his nostrils even amidst the stench of booze that threatens to overwhelm it. The small cross tattooed on one of the sinewy hands splayed over his ribs confirms what he already knows, and he has to fight against the smile threatening to break his face in two.

He lifts a hand to curl it around Harry's forearm in greeting. ‘Alive, then?’

Harry presses a discernible pout to the back of his neck that suggests he’s alive, but he’s not quite happy about it.

'Louis won't let me drink anymore,' Harry whines, his voice obscenely raw the way it is when he's had too much Bacardi or when he's disappeared to a bathroom stall for too long. A shiver runs down Zayn's spine as he wonders which one it is tonight, or if maybe it’s both.

'Louis's being _sensible_?' Zayn asks, keeping his voice in check and managing not to lean back into Harry's broad, sturdy chest. 'Times they are a-changing.'

Harry loosens his hold on Zayn's waist so he can sway to stand beside him instead, his hip connecting ungracefully with the counter in the process. He winces at the impact, but it doesn't deter him from pressing all along Zayn's arm with his toned torso, his hand lingering on Zayn’s back, uncomfortably warm and large and heady. When Zayn tilts his head to look at him, their eyes meet from far too close.

'Just one sip,' Harry cajoles sweetly. 'Won't tell.'

Zayn goes cross-eyed trying to keep his gaze on Harry's face, resisting the urge to dart forward and bite his nose just so he can see him scrunch it up and swat him away like a confused kitten.

'Fuck off,' Zayn says softly instead, looking down at Harry's lips before meeting his eyes. 'They'll be pumping your stomach by dawn, most like.'

Harry whines his discontentment like a toddler denied a teddy bear, slumping further until his face is pressed against Zayn's neck. His breath fans over Zayn's collarbone right before he angles himself down to properly bite it. 'Mean.'

'A good friend,' Zayn corrects, ignoring the dangerous heat that pools in his lower stomach at the slightest hint of spit against his clavicle. 'Louis letting you sleep here tonight?'

Harry shrugs, lifting his head and picking up a mostly empty red cup from the counter, swirling the lime green liquid around its insides but making no move to drink from it.

'He's been chatting up this bird all night,' he says. 'Think he'll want his 'privacy'. I'll just stay at mine.'

Zayn imagines it, Harry stumbling out of a taxi alone at this time of night, only just making it up to the doorstep of his random hostel before he's sick on the asphalt. The thought leaves a sour taste in Zayn's mouth, reminding him that he hasn’t had a sip of his vodka cranberry yet, but he’s sort of lost the desire for it entirely, stomach queasy as it is without the drink to make it worse.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches up to smooth Harry's wrecked fringe away from his eyes, scraping it off his forehead even though the curls are as stubborn as their owner, flopping right back into place as soon as Zayn lowers his hand to Harry’s neck instead.

'You'll stay with me.’

Harry hums this long, grateful hum, swaying closer like he might fall on him but he doesn’t, just drops his forehead to his and curls a hand in the dip of his back, nudging their noses together. Zayn goes still in the face of their sudden closeness, joints locking up as his eyes fall shut, fingers curling against the back of Harry’s neck. He tries to keep his composure in check, but his throat is contracting like it's swelling shut and his breathing is coming in too thin. He doesn’t know when Harry started having this impact on him, but he knows he needs to break away from him soon.

Harry angles closer and his movements are headier now, more purposeful; he breathes warm, rum-tinged breaths against Zayn's lips, and before Zayn can wrap his head around what's happening, Harry's mouth closes against his with a small sound that vibrates all the way down to Zayn's chest, the rumble of it releasing like slow-motion shrapnel right behind his ribs.

Zayn makes a pained sound in the back of his throat, his eyes screwing shut as his hand squeezes to steady Harry by the neck, not knowing whether to pull him closer or shove him away. He forces himself to break off, his breathing coming out ragged and chopped despite how short the contact had been; he feels like his lips have been kissed raw, as if their mouths had been crushed together again and again rather than just the one time. He stares at Harry's cupid’s bow, bewildered and hazy, feeling drunker than he should for someone who’s stone cold sober.

'You're pissed,' Zayn murmurs when he finds his breath, looking up at Harry's glazed eyes, realizing just how red they are.

Harry nods slowly, cheeks pinking as he curls his hands around Zayn's hips and hides his head against Zayn's shoulder, burrowing close. 'M’ so sorry. I'm going to be ill, maybe.'

Zayn lets his eyes fall shut, heart still pounding. He rubs a hand up and down Harry's muscled back as he wills his own nausea to quell, regaining his composure in increments, though never fully.

'Hey,’ he murmurs, nudging Harry’s curls with his nose. ‘Haz. Bathroom?'

It takes a moment, but Harry shakes his head, breaking away from Zayn’s neck and dropping hooded eyes onto the scattered cups on the counter instead. He nudges one with his thumb until it tips over and spills all over his hand and down his wrist, failing to get a reaction out of his booze-riddled brain.

Zayn reaches over for the roll of paper towels nearby, ripping some off and taking Harry’s hand in his, wiping it down for him.

Harry thanks him in a mumble, voice sheepish and barely audible when he speaks up again. 'Can I still stay at yours tonight?'

Zayn lets himself survey Harry’s face, looking at him from his eyes to his lips and back up again, even though Harry won’t meet his gaze any more.

'Of course,' he murmurs.

Harry's entire body seems to loosen at that, his expression relaxing and shoulders dropping a half-inch. He doesn't turn to face Zayn full-on again, but he does tilt his temple against Zayn's and hold himself there, his breath warm and tangy where it cascades against his jawline. 

Zayn doesn't want to disturb the moment, keeps himself rooted in his spot and nearly holds his breath. Harry angles himself carefully closer, too close for comfort, stilling a hair's breadth away from Zayn's lips, and then he drops a gentle, uncertain kiss to them that lingers long enough for Zayn to feel it searing his insides, certain to leave a mark.

\--

As soon as Harry hits Zayn’s sheets -- too drunk to accept sleeping on the sofa -- he’s dead to the world, fully-clothed and drooling onto Zayn’s pillow before Zayn has even had time to switch on the lights.

When they broke away from each other in Louis’ kitchen earlier, a thick smog of uncertainty surrounding them, Zayn suggested a bit of fresh air and Harry accepted with ease, the two of them bundling up before saying goodbye to Louis and the lads and heading outside. That was when Zayn really realized just how drunk Harry was, when Harry pushed him away and ambled forward in a diagonal, unsteady line, putting a stretch of distance between them before doubling up over the kerb to grab onto his knees and retching.

Harry looks unfairly peaceful in comparison now, a chameleon who can adapt to his surroundings effortlessly. One moment he's this debauched rockstar who can empty his insides on a sidewalk like the worst of them, and the next he's just a teenager snoring in his sleep and giving Zayn's pale sheets a run for their money.

Zayn peels Harry's mobile out of his hand -- it’s as good as an extra sodding limb to him, even in sleep, probably even in the afterlife -- and checks the display on instinct more than anything else. There are three new messages, and Zayn is equally relieved and dismayed that Harry's privacy settings make it so that there's no preview that could suggest the contents of them, a morbid curiosity nagging at him. 

_Don't be him,_ he thinks with a thump of his heart, setting the mobile aside and surveying Harry’s face. _Don't be him, don't be him, don't be him._

Halfway through the taxi ride over to Zayn's, Harry's hands started to fidget in his lap, fingernails scratching against his palm like he was trying to draw blood. Zayn’s stomach coiled protectively as he realized why; they’d just driven past Harry's old neighbourhood and Harry’s old flat, the one he’d shared with Damien and the one where Damien probably still lived. Zayn reached over, then, curling a cold, dry hand around Harry's warm, clammy one and squeezing his fingers, bringing them to his lap. Harry's thumb hooked around Zayn's and he took a long, wavering breath that shook the quiet of the taxi to its core, but after that, his hands went still.

He doesn't know if Harry's still in touch with Damien after all this time, so when Harry’s mobile lights up again on the nightstand with yet another text, all Zayn can think is, _Just don’t be him._

The entire night has left Zayn feeling a bit off-centre, if he's honest, and he finds a strange sense of solace in going through his nightly routine over the washroom sink to the sound of Harry snoring. He brushes his teeth, flosses them and cleanses his face before getting into bed, reciting a few du’a passages in his head when he can’t get to sleep straight away.

It must work, because when he wakes, there’s bits of sunlight streaming in through the boarded up window, and the dull sounds of morning surrounding him: an argument outside his window that is far too loud for far too early; the incessant whine and grumble of his withered fridge; the tick-tock-tick-tock of his wall clock taunting him awake.

He rubs his cheek against the crisp fabric of his pillow and it helps him break out of slumber, eyes blinking open stickily. His vision swims into focus, and after a few blinks, a soft flutter of white and blue catches his attention. He's too dazed to make sense of it at first, but then he squints and reaches out to touch it, realizing it's a torn-out page on the pillow where Harry's messy curls are meant to be.

A heaviness settles into his stomach as the happenings of the previous night filter through the cottony insides of his head. With some effort, he lifts up onto his elbows to look down at the paper, dragging it closer with his fingertips, bleary eyes attempting to drink in the familiar chicken scratch handwriting.

_Morning, sleepy head.. Lost count of how many things I owe you. The world, I think? You're the best.. Big love.. See you next year! :)_

_\- H xx_

Zayn's heart gives a hard thump that his palm rises to soothe, but he's still too caught up in the molasses thick grip of sleep to dissect the way his insides ache. He crumples the paper, keeping it in his fist and pulling it to his chest as he returns his head to the pillow, letting his eyes fall shut.

He slips back into sleep, fighting off the phantom tingle of Harry’s lips on his own, and ignores the dull, aching void behind his ribs over the fact that the new year is two weeks away.

 

***

 

Bradford is dead and blanketed in a layer of white, too much like a body waiting to be buried. It’s not the soft kind of snow, but the harsh, piled up sort that makes you want to sleep all day. It gives Zayn a solid excuse to bundle up in sweats and an oversized jumper and sit on his arse in front of the telly for almost his entire holidays.

It's all he's done for years now, anyway, as far as Christmas goes. His family never used to have a tree when it was just him and Doniya, but Waliyha and Safaa's schools are a lot more mixed and they always feel left out around their friends, so now they have stockings and decorations and gift exchanges and all that. Zayn likes it because it gives him an excuse to spoil his sisters rotten after being away so long, especially since he usually can't be there for Eid, and their eyes always light up when he buys them things from London that you couldn’t find in all of Yorkshire.

Other than being with his family, he sees Danny and Ant every other day. He's been trying to keep in touch with the boys in London, too, but everyone’s busy with their own families. Louis gets really caught up in his old life when he’s in Doncaster, and Liam and his family decided to go on a trip to their cottage for Christmas, so he’s off the map. Niall is busy with his new nephew in Ireland, and Harry is just Harry. 

Being in Bradford has made all the confusion of what happened between the two of them so much more pronounced. Bradford reminds Zayn of the quiet, introverted boy he used to be, going to the mosque every Friday with his dad and having more cousins than friends, and suddenly Harry feels more like a threat than a promise. He lets his phone run out of charge most nights, sometimes accidentally but mostly purposefully, so their exchanges have been forced to be few and far between.

He hates to think he's only got a few more days at home now. Soon it’ll be January and he’ll be gone back to London, starting another year on his own. His stomach twists at the mere thought of not being able to curl up in his bed with his old, dusty comics for hours on end; not being able to taste his mum’s chicken tikka or her mutton korma; not being able to argue with his sisters about every little thing until his dad has gone mad with the noise levels.

An episode of Coronation Street starts up on their bulky television set that predates flat screens and LCDs, the sort that wouldn't even sell for more than 20 quid, probably. Zayn doesn't care for the show, but he enjoys himself anyway, overdosing on his mum's gulab jamun from last night. She usually only makes it for special occasions, but she loves to spoil Zayn rotten whenever he's around, and he’s not one to complain.

He pushes up from the sofa when he's finished the last syrupy ball of fried dough, dragging his feet into the kitchen where his mum is doing a monstrous pile of dishes. He drops his bowl and spoon in the sink, then presses along Tricia's back and squeezes her shoulders, kissing the back of her head.

'You good, mum?'

Tricia hums her assent. He kneads her shoulders, trying to relieve the tension that he's noticed her carrying around in the past few days. He wants to ask her if she'll maybe come over to London and do his dishes later, because the promise of mould at the bottom of his sink makes him want to throw all his bowls out and eat off of paper plates for the rest of his life. He bites his tongue against the selfish plea -- she does enough already without cleaning after his mess in another city -- and slinks away, hauling himself up onto the counter.

'You've been awfully quiet lately,' Zayn accuses, exaggerating his accent. He picks up an apple from the fruit bowl next to his hip and throws it in the air before it lands back in his palm. 'Everything all right over here? Are we good for money or...?'

'You're always worrying,' Tricia tuts, which doesn't really answer his question. 'Just like your father. You know he gave himself grey hair before he were even thirty? You'll be just the same. You're meant to come here and take a break, aren't you?'

'Mum,' he rolls his eyes. 'S'not like you stop being my family when I'm away. I worry about you all the time, regardless where I am. S’my job, innit?'

'You shouldn't do, sunshine,' she says. 'You should just take care of yourself. It's all I've ever asked of you.'

'I know,' he replies long-sufferingly, wishing for once that his entire family was less experienced in deflecting. He looks down at the apple in his hand, shiny and unnaturally green, and scratches the stubborn sticker off its surface with his thumbnail. 'I've just been noticing how weird you've been acting, is all. You’ve not got a very good poker face, have you? Such a good Muslim.’

She swats his thigh with something between a horrified squawk and a laugh, making him smirk, pleased with himself.

‘I’m just saying,’ he says. ‘You don't have to be so _cagey_ about it.'

'Well,' Tricia says, going wordless for a while as she does the dishes with more vigour. Zayn thinks that's all she's going to say about it, but then she adds, 'Your father's been having a rough time of things in work, I suppose.'

It's as if she's only just telling Zayn the gas prices have gone up, not that half their source of income is at risk. He should be used to it by now. His mum hates sharing the weight of the world on her shoulders with anyone else, least of all Zayn, though he’d gladly carry it all for her if he could.

'I don't want to worry you, Zayn, because I know how you are. He's just been a bit in a bad way, of late.'

Zayn nods, looking down at the apple. The sticker has left a smidgen of glue behind in its wake, despite how clean he'd tried to make the peel. He feels numb from his ears to his toes, all of a sudden, and he hates himself for shutting down at the first sign of trouble. 

'Has there been more downsizing or summat?'

'Not since the one time, no, knock on wood,' Tricia says. 'Anyhow, you know what he's like, always keeping himself so busy that he can barely remember his own name. I've been telling him to take some time to think of other jobs, but he won't listen, stubborn as he is -- thinks he's too old for change.'

'Yeah,' Zayn murmurs, a concoction of guilt and worry settling in his stomach. 

He remembers long nights of talking with his dad, of being told he'll be the breadwinner of the family soon enough and he'll have to take care of their girls when he's gone. Zayn used to just say ‘knock on wood’ or ‘a long time yet, dad’ like he’d been taught to. But he remembers it all so clearly, the fights when he told his parents he'd be going into art school instead of engineering or architecture, remembers how his father seldom spoke to him after he enrolled and left to London, remembers his mum's gentle voice telling him, 'He'll come around, babe.'

He _has_ come around, and Zayn doesn’t think there’s anyone in the world as proud and supportive of his art as his dad is, but it’s still hard for the both of them sometimes, being so similar to one another and not repelling each other. His mum always tells Zayn that he’s a mirror image of his father when he was younger -- the same face, the same voice, the same heart.

Before Christmas, Zayn hadn’t called him in so long, long enough that he doesn't even remember what they spoke about. The miserable Yorkshire weather or the near-toxic state of air pollution in the city, probably. Zayn isn't the greatest offspring, but then again they have Doniya for that.

He sets the apple back into the fruit bowl and takes a breath, looking at his mum. 'But you and the girls, you're all well?'

'We're fantastic, love,' Tricia smiles, seeming just as glad to change the subject as Zayn is. 'Don's been keeping to herself, as usual, but Waliyha's been a bit more outgoing lately, which is a relief. Saf is Saf, wonderful as ever. She got her first award as a prefect a couple weeks ago and she's just been buzzing about it, parading it around wherever we go. Did she show you? She pulled it out in the middle of McDonalds the other day, showing it off to anyone who'll look.'

'Yeah, she showed me,' Zayn smirks.

He wants to tell his mum to let his sisters know every day when he's gone that he misses each one of them so much he could be sick with it, but he's too afraid her motherly senses will kick in and she'll tell him _I told you so, Zayn; living alone isn't as brilliant as you'd wished for, is it?_ Because for all that he misses the comfort of home when he's away, the thought of being back in Bradford full-time makes his kneecaps buzz like they're ready to take flight.

'And what about you, Casanova?' Tricia asks, then, with an upward lilt to her voice. 'Met anyone particularly sweet you'd like to introduce me to?'

Zayn rolls his eyes. Not a day goes by that his mum doesn't manage to ask him one way or another if he's ready to wed anyone 'sweet', and he doesn't have the heart to tell her that her parameters of sweetness aren't likely to match up to his.

He imagines her face if she'd ever set eyes on someone like Marissa, pale as a ghost with her box-dyed, stick straight black hair and her splattering of colourful tattoos from shoulder to wrist. It's not that he takes his mother for a spectacularly orthodox person, or anything, not with the way she’s had to adjust to _Zayn’s_ tattoos over the past three years. Not even his father is too bad for that, honestly. His parents have had an unconventional journey of their own, after all, and even though Zayn doesn't know every detail of it, his mum has shared enough for him to paint a picture in his head. 

They met when they were barely twenty at a cafeteria where Yaser was a busboy and she was cooking hot meals. His father was known to be a bit of a heartthrob back then, with his mum's coworkers dissolving into giddy smiles whenever he walked by. On Yaser's lunch breaks, he'd ask Tricia if she would deign to cook him something delicious because her food was the only kind worth eating in that entire godforsaken place. She always went pink, apparently, blushing under his father's gaze like a fire had been lit in the apples of her cheeks.

They started seeing each other proper after that, inside of work and outside of it, spending enough time together to make any two people sick of one another, inseparable as they were. The ‘honeymoon’ stage didn't last long, as there was hell to pay when Zayn's grandparents on both sides laid eyes on their potential children-in-law.

Yaser was met with staunch refusal, and he was advised to marry someone who could speak an ounce of Urdu and would help teach his kids how to strengthen their iman, not someone who would widen the wedge between them and the homeland.

On his mum's side, Zayn's grandparents were unthinkably worse. Tricia's voice would always go unsteady whenever she recalled this part, holding her stomach and saying it made her sick just remembering their initial reaction. She couldn't bring herself to repeat the things they'd told her about Yaser when she first showed them his pictures and told them he was the one she wanted to marry.

They didn't have an easy go of things when they decided to have a wedding anyway, abandoned by both sides of their family.

Tricia got pregnant a year later, and that was what started to fix things. The ties between Zayn's parents and his grandparents began to strengthen again once Zayn was born, and even though there were always going to be disagreements that took years off their lives, Tricia insisted she wouldn't have had it any other way, if only for the fact that she's been blessed with the children she has today.

Zayn always revered these stories, even if he teased his mum about always tearing up somewhere in the middle. Sometimes it made his ears burn with shame to hear her talk about how hard it had been to get to where they are now. He knows how careless he's been with their trust so many times before, and wishes he could say he's never kept them up at night.

'No, mum,' he tells her belatedly. 'Haven't met anyone sweet enough for you just yet.'

'If she's sweet enough for you, love, she's sweet enough for me.'

It winds him, a bit, to hear her say it so explicitly. _If she’s sweet enough for you, she’s sweet enough for me._ He can't help but think of Harry, with his saccharine warmth and his dimpled, lazy smiles that are slow as honey. He thinks of the smell of vanilla bean that surrounds him wherever he goes, as familiar to Zayn as the uneven ridges of his teeth. He wonders if any of those things could ever be sweet enough for him, sweet enough for his mum, but quickly swallows against the thought and lets it settle heavy and uncomfortable in his stomach.

'Insha'Allah, mum,' he says, once he trusts his voice with the words. 'One day, maybe.'

\--

There's only one slice of pizza left from the three jumbos they'd ordered earlier. It's on the floor in front of the TV, and just the sight of it is making Zayn feel sick.

The countdown to the new year isn't far off, but they’ve all deflated spectacularly after eating so much food -- spicy wings and pizza and coleslaw and loads of cola. Doniya disappeared up to her room some time ago, and Waliyha is laid out on the sofa with her head in her dad's lap, Yaser's fingers carding through her hair, and her feet tucked in her mum's. They'd considered going into the city for fireworks just because Safaa is really into that kind of thing, the only one of them still young and unbridled enough to admit excitement over exploding colours in the sky, but she'd fallen sick a couple of days ago, so they all decided to stay in for her benefit. 

She's curled up, now, half-asleep in the cradle of Zayn's arms on the perpendicular sofa, breathing snuffly little unwell breaths into his shirt as he peppers her head with occasional kisses. She's so warm against him, burning up with fever, and Zayn feels terrible that this is how she has to spend New Year's Eve. He honestly couldn't care less for it himself, but Safaa loves celebrations and he hates to see her so miserable tonight when she'd been buzzing about it just the other day.

It's about thirty minutes to midnight when his mum hisses his name under her breath. His eyelids had been drooping, but that catches his attention and he looks over to see Tricia nodding at Safaa in his arms.

‘Put her to bed, will you, love?’

He looks down to find that Safaa has completely fallen asleep and nods, humming his assent. He sits up and adjusts her pliant body so he can carry her with one arm beneath her bottom and one around her middle, her head dropping heavy on his shoulder and her arms circling his neck.

He takes her to bed and tucks her in gingerly. When she whines and starts to shuck the blanket off herself, he tells her to keep it on so she can sweat out her fever in the night. She doesn't protest, and it makes him smile to know how much she trusts him as he tucks her back in. He leaves her room with a kiss to her forehead, his mobile buzzing in his pocket as soon as he closes the door.

It's 11:38 and Harry is calling him. Zayn's heart shoots up to his throat as his thumbs hover over the answer and decline buttons, unable to bring himself to press either. He lets the call end on its own and watches the screen go dim before he forces himself back downstairs, surreptitiously pulling on his coat and going out the kitchen door into the yard for a cigarette. 

His parents have been less murderous about him smoking now that he's older, but he still tries to be subtle about it; it feels more respectful, somehow, to not shove it in their faces -- to pretend it isn't happening altogether. They obviously smell smoke on him every time he comes in from outside, but they just level him with a look and move on.

He sits on one of the plastic chairs that's missing some pieces from its back and looks back down at his phone, expecting only the missed call notification, but he has two texts from Harry that came in right after the call.

_I'm sooooooo very drunk._

And then: _Zaynn. Can I calk you? Xx_

Zayn huffs a laugh at the typo. He doesn't know what to do. Part of him, the cowardly part, wants to take the easy way out and pretend he was already sleeping when Harry tried to get in touch. He's afraid of how candid Harry can be when he's drunk, and doesn't want to have to deal with that tonight, not after their last interaction. Another part of him, the part that loves to be on the receiving end of Harry's attention in any situation, wants to reply and say, _yes, you can call whenever_.

He settles somewhere in between, texting him with a less severe lie: _Can't talk, out with fam, aha. :) You good? Drink water_.

The response is almost immediate.

 _Okkk_ , the first reply reads. _Are are you going to kiss anyone at midnight? I don't know if I should. I wanna kiss someone but I don't?_

Zayn's heart all but stops in his chest, and it's suddenly a bit difficult to breathe even with all the open-air around him. The thought of curling up beneath a heap of blankets seems more refreshing than this.

_No I'm not gunna kiss any1. With my fam remember?_

_Okkkkk._

Zayn wants to reply and ask what Harry means by that. Does he mean he is going to kiss someone anyway? Not that it really matters. Not that it should matter, in any case. It shouldn’t matter at all. Zayn knows how much Harry likes to kiss people and supposes it might be a tragedy for him to go unsnogged on NYE of all nights.

Zayn smokes two cigarettes thinking about it, and when it's almost just midnight and he’s slipping back indoors to find his family, his phone buzzes one more time.

_Happy New Year. Thankyou for everything you've done for me this year, couldn't have survived without you. Wish you were here with me tonight. Xx_

It takes him a minute, but Zayn replies with some variation of _you too_ that his fingers can manage typing without shaking too hard. He hopes his family don't feel his heart hammering in his chest when he finally finds them blowing whistles in the TV room, hugging them in some semblance of celebration.

 

***

 

Zayn doesn't fancy himself melodramatic, but in all honesty, he dreads his birthday with the same sort of intensity that he would dread having the plague. 

The concentrated attention on him is uncomfortable at best and anxiety-inducing at worst. The whole affair only serves as a reminder that he's so far from home again, back in dreary, overcrowded London, and as a bonus, he's achieved so little of what he'd set out to with his life so far.

Last year, he’d let Louis talk him into throwing a party that ended with Zayn locking himself in the bathroom with Niall to smoke a bowl or three, until the two of them were really, truly fucked out of their minds, but this year he makes sure it can’t happen again by penciling himself in for a full day at the bookstore. 

He breaks it to the lads over lunch during one of their daytime outings, bringing it up casually in hopes they won't pick up on it and make it into a thing.

'I've got a double-shift on Friday,' he says, nodding at Louis' tray. 'Can I have your pepper sachet?’

He doesn't have to look up to know that Louis has narrowed his eyes into thin, dangerous slits. 

‘As in January the 12th, Friday?’

Zayn confirms that, yes, January the 12th, Friday, and yes, he's aware that that's the same day as his birthday, and no, he's not pulling their leg.

Louis is affronted to say the least. He kicks Zayn underneath the table and badgers him to call into work and cancel so they can celebrate the 'joyous bloody occasion' of his birth, threatening to throw him a surprise party if he doesn't plan something himself. Zayn shrugs and tells Louis to do what he wants, but to make sure and strike Zayn off the guest list, because he’s not going to come.

Niall takes a different route, suggesting that they all just get together for a night of pizza and FIFA at one of their places. Liam agrees, trying to guilt Zayn into accepting by reminding him that this only happens once a year. It's a commendable effort, but Zayn isn't swayed, and he's honestly too distracted by Harry’s silence throughout the entire discussion.

He's suspiciously quiet, but Zayn supposes it might be because he still hasn’t gotten over the cold he caught when he got back from holiday in Holmes Chapel. He keeps eying Zayn in the way that he does when he's not had enough rest, eyes puffy with a lack of sleep. He's in his dark blue zip-up jumper that says '1976' on the front with the hood pulled over a backwards cap and his hair flaring out softly at the sides. The bird tattoos on his chest poke out over a low tank, the dark ink of them stark between the white drawstrings of his jumper.

He looks distressingly ready for a cuddle, and Zayn is suddenly eager to grant him one. He wishes he was sitting on the other side of the table next to him, close enough to steal his body heat and maybe some of his food, just to see his face scrunch up in annoyance.

Apparently Zayn stares too long, because all of a sudden he gets a chip thrown at his cheek and Niall saying, 'Oi -- what's with you two lately?'

Harry ducks his head, poking around his styrofoam container of Thai noodles with his fork, looking pink in the cheeks. Zayn hopes his own ears don't burn too bright at being caught, returning to the topic at hand as smoothly as possible.

'We're not having a birthday party,' he says. 'I took on the extra work 'cause I need the money. We'll celebrate some other time, yeah? Can I have your pepper sachet?’

Louis empties the sachet right into Zayn’s cola, which really is a dick move. It seems to be the end of his retaliation, though, and a few minutes later he gives Zayn his own drink by way of apology and the tension eases up around them.

By the end of their meal, they've bantered over enough unrelated things that Zayn almost forgets the birthday discussion happened altogether. He's a bit ashamed of himself for avoiding Harry's gaze after Niall's comment, but he thinks maybe it was subtle enough that nobody noticed it was calculated.

They all grab their dirtied trays and start toward the bins, Louis threatening to dump his rubbish down the back of Niall's shirt and Liam asking how many carbs they think is in a Greek salad.

Zayn slides his leftovers into the bin and sets his tray down at the designated drop-off, and Harry hovers disconcertingly close, making the hairs at the back of Zayn's neck bristle when he leans forward and follows suit with his own tray. 

'Don’t be silly about your birthday -- s’important,' he says finally, his voice rasping with disuse, and it almost startles Zayn to realize it's the first thing Harry's said to him all day. He wants to hear him speak again, but Harry doesn't elaborate, and Zayn is too cowardly to ask him to.

Before Zayn can muster up the courage to reply with anything more than a curious look, Harry’s trailing behind the other boys with hunched shoulders, leaving him to stare at the slope of his back.

\--

The bookstore is the slowest it's been all month. Customers come and go in ones and twos, but never more than that. Zayn can't help but love it. He loves that browsing books can be such a solitary act. It's one of the only things he can do completely on his own for enjoyment in public without being looked at like he's a nutter, and though he's not the kind to care if people think he's strange, it's sometimes nice just to blend in.

Before he got a job there, he used to come in for hours on end, just running his fingertips along the battered spines of books. The pages were bruised yellow when he flicked them open, stories emanating the stale scent of all the bookshelves they'd already lived on. He used to love to inhale the dusty smell of aging wood and dirtied carpeting, and he still takes a deep breath of it every once in a while when he's on the rota and no one's paying him any attention.

Omari is off sick today, so it's only Zayn in the shop, though Clara texted that she would try to stop in after class to help him out later that night. He doesn't mind being alone, soaking up the stillness of the shop and texting with his sisters to pass the time. Waliyha sent him an audio clip of her saying 'happy birthday, idiot -- love you or whatever' a few minutes ago and he's already listened to it three times. His parents and Safaa FaceTimed him first thing in the morning, embarrassingly breaking into song as soon as he picked up their video call. Doniya rang him sometime around lunch and they ended up speaking for about an hour, mostly about nothing. It settles his bones a bit to revel in the mundane.

It's dead quiet by the time early evening rolls around and Clara still hasn't shown up, which is why Zayn's head snaps up fast enough to give him whiplash at the shock of sound around half-past five.

Niall, Liam and Louis barrel into the shop like the idiots that they are, bringing with them a gust of harsh cold from outside that makes Zayn shiver. Each of them is holding onto the string of a different balloon that bumps the top of the doorframe on the way in -- one has 'Birthday Boy!' written on it, and the other two have Belle from _Beauty and the Beast_ and Jasmine from _Aladdin_.

If Zayn wasn't so utterly thankful to have them in his life, he might've pressed the emergency security button next to the till just to be a dick.

'You're such idiots,' he says, matter-of-fact.

Niall shrugs with a shit-eating grin and proudly squared shoulders. 'Takes one to know one, head.'

They stick around for a while, just fucking about and reading through the rude magazines and erotica novels stocked in the adult section at the back. Other than the balloons and a tray of caffeinated drinks from Nero with extra whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top from which Zayn gets first pick, they don't try to make a big deal of the whole birthday thing. They don't even sing or try to stuff his face in a cake or anything, and he's grateful for it. They just give him a few cuddles and keep him company until they have to go.

As they're filing out, Liam turns back around with an 'ah!' like he's just remembered something important. He walks back to the counter and reaches for the front of Zayn's shirt, pulling him close and smacking a loud, wet kiss to his cheek. He pats Zayn's bearded jaw as he breaks away. 'That's from Harry, by the way. He says sorry he couldn't make it.'

Zayn feels his stomach swoop, only letting himself nod once with a tight smile, not trusting his voice with a response. 

Harry was the first one to message Zayn in the morning, is the thing. His texts had read something like 'Haaaappy haaaaappy birthday maaaate! Are your lashes longer this morning? Did your cheekbones get sharper? More ruggedly handsome all of a sudden? Like a fine wine.. Xx' Then, not a moment later, 'Saalgirah Mubarak.. :) I asked my friend who speaks a bit of urdu.. Hope it's right. Xx'

Zayn didn't reply to any of it. He kept scrolling past the messages throughout the day while he was bouncing back and forth between texting Waliyha and Doniya, and his heart gave a painful thump every single time he caught a glimpse of Harry's name.

He watches the boys leave, loud and raucous as they spill out of his store and onto the street, Niall letting out a hissed string of expletives that sounds something like 'fucking cocksucker bitch tits' at the sharp cold.

Zayn pulls the sleeves of his jumper over his hands to protect himself from the chill that sneaks in. He shivers for a few minutes as his body readjusts, but he can feel one single spot on his cheek burning up for the entirety of his shift, and he tries not to think about it.

\--

It's drizzling softly when he heads home for the night, but not enough to make his bike ride unsafe, and he comes to a stop outside his building before he can really get wet from it. He locks up his bike in its usual spot, head ducked away from the droplets, then climbs the steps up to his floor two at a time while being careful not to slip, fishing in his jacket pocket for his keys. He stutters in his spot when he realizes he's not alone.

At the other end of the hallway, there's about five-foot-nine of gangly, smiling boy waiting for him.

Maybe it's because Zayn hadn't expected to see it tonight, but Harry's grin is honestly a bit momentarily blinding. He's leaning his shoulder against the wall next to Zayn's unit, his legs crossed at the ankles. He's got a small pink and white box in the cradle of his hand.

'Brought you a present,' he says, lifting it up demonstratively.

'I don't do presents,' Zayn manages to say, but he doesn't sound as exasperated as he'd like to as he continues the trek to his door.

'You'll like this one,' Harry says, sounding proud of himself. 'Promise.'

Zayn finally finds his key and goes through his standard battle of trying to get the jammed lock to submit to him before letting himself inside with a grunt. He doesn't have to look behind him to know Harry will follow, but he does anyway, watching the way Harry sets the small box down gingerly so he can slip off his shoes and jacket and set them aside in a pile.

He's in a loose grey jumper, the collar of a white shirt visible underneath when he straightens back up. His curls are shoved beneath a soft blue beanie and his cheeks are rosy pink. He doesn't look overheated in all his layers, which means he couldn't have been waiting for Zayn too long in the perpetual warmth of the hallway.

Harry seems to be oblivious to Zayn's eyes on him. He takes off his beanie and starts to rough up his curls vigorously, face twisted in this sour sort of expression, and Zayn can't help but snort a laugh.

Harry's eyes snap up to Zayn and he slows down his movements sheepishly, a toddler who's been caught embarrassing himself. 'Don't laugh. My hair doesn't look good when I've been wearing a hat all day.'

'Looks fine,' Zayn says, suppressing the desire to roll his eyes. 'Your face is just, like. Generally stupid.'

' _Your_ face is generally stupid,' Harry retorts, syrupy slow. 'And it's even specifically stupid as well. The stupidest.'

'Thought I was 'ruggedly handsome' just this morning.'

Harry blushes in earnest at that, biting his lip and wringing his beanie between his fingers. 'Just a birthday joke. Don't get a big head over it.'

Zayn nods with a pleased hum, leading them deeper into the flat. He switches on the light, then lowers himself down to the floor in front of the sofa and groans as the ache of working all day nags at his bones. He stretches his legs out ahead of him and looks up at Harry, seeing him grab the small box from the ground near the door before he ambles over to sit next to Zayn.

'Happy birthday,' Harry says, handing the box over. It's made of flimsy cardboard with a sweet birthday-specific design on the front, clearly from his bakery.

Zayn bites his lip, pulling open the necessary flaps until he can peer inside of the container. A cupcake stares back at him with black frosting all around and the batman symbol in the middle in bright yellow. Zayn's heart all but skips a beat. He reaches in and pulls it out, examining the frosting up close with a smile.

'I didn't bring a candle,' Harry says, sounding apologetic. 'They were a pound fifty and I only had enough on me for the cupcake. I didn't get a card, either. Sorry I'm crap.'

Zayn sets the box aside, still holding the cupcake as he levels Harry with an affectionate look. 'You're not crap. D'you wanna share it with me?

Harry smirks slowly, and it looks a bit wicked. 'Not yet. Look inside the box. The cupcake's not your gift, obviously.'

Zayn's brows furrow in confusion. He carefully sets the cupcake down on the coffee table before grabbing the box with a mumbled, 'What've you done now, Styles?'

He peers back down into box and gives it a shake, dislodging his actual gift from where it was stuck underneath one of the flaps. He laughs when he realizes what it is. 'You idiot.'

Harry smiles broadly. 'Told you you'd like it.'

Zayn reaches in and pulls the small joint out from the box, looking over at Harry and repeating himself with a grin, 'You wanna share it with me?'

'Of course,' Harry laughs, lifting a hand to his heart. 'Only I was a little bit bothered by it last time. Could feel it in my chest for a few hours after. When I used to do it with Damien, we shotgunned it so it would be softer on my lungs or whatever.'

Zayn sets the box back down, ignoring the jealous pull inside his stomach at the mention of Damien's name. 'Did it work, then?'

'I think so. Was actually quite nice.'

'We could do it like that, if you'd like.'

He forces the suggestion to sound casual and offhand, but the sweat on his palms and the thump of his heart tell a different story. He passes Harry the joint so he can push up from the ground and wander over to his windowsill, grabbing his lighter and ashtray from where they're perched before making his way back.

He settles onto the floor again and puts the ashtray next to him on his other side, then retrieves the joint from Harry's fingers. 'You ready?'

'No. Wait,' Harry says. He sits up more properly, pulling the grey jumper over his head so he's just in his white shirt, setting the jumper down between the V of his legs and looking back at Zayn with even messier hair. 'Alright. Ready.'

Zayn forces himself to look away. He pinches the joint between his lips to light it, taking a slow, deep drag that makes the paper crackle and recede into itself. He lets the smoke coat his throat thickly until he can feel it start to hurt, then carefully sets the joint down in the ashtray by his hip. He holds the smoke inside, turning his body towards Harry's.

He cups the side of Harry's throat in his hand with a thumb to his jaw, leaning in to nudge his nose against his before stilling in cowardice. The smoke starts to make Zayn dizzy, but he waits until Harry tilts forward encouragingly before he presses in more surely himself. He tries to seal Harry's mouth as best as he can with his own, slowly releasing the smoke into it in a languid, shivery stream.

Harry's breath hitches as he inhales, but he doesn't move at all, reverently still. He licks out against his chapped lips and his tongue touches Zayn's mouth. He tilts away to exhale and Zayn watches him closely, observing the shape of his lips when they're molding themselves around clouds of grey. Harry swallows and repositions himself after, meeting Zayn's eyes through thick lashes.

'Again,' he says.

His voice is a bit fucked out already. It sends a chill down Zayn's spine to hear it, but he does a good job of pretending he's unaffected. Zayn fulfils Harry's request for more, taking another hit and passing smoke between their mouths puff after puff after puff, more confidently each time, until the joint is nearing its very end and Harry is giggling against his lips to _stop, stop, stop_ , turning away so that he's not laughing right into Zayn's face.

Zayn's endeared grin at Harry's low tolerance builds wide enough to make his cheekbones ache. When Harry's managed to get his laughter under control, he turns back to Zayn and smiles with his whole face, but it's a bit wonky with the weed. He lifts a hand and runs the backs of his knuckles along Zayn's beard, back-and-forth, back-and-forth. Zayn can feel the coarse hairs bristle underneath his touch.

'Comes in so thick,' Harry says dreamily, gazing at Zayn's jawline.

Zayn hums in agreement, a hint of amusement lighting up his eyes and bleeding into his tone.

'Thanks for the observation, peach fuzz,' he says. 'I _am_ a brown boy, if you hadn't noticed.'

Harry rolls his eyes, but his cheeks go impossibly pinker at that. His dimpled smile comes through a bit more timidly, too, and Zayn loves it. He loves to catch him off-guard and embarrass him.

'I've noticed, thanks very much,' he mumbles.

He looks back to Zayn's mouth closely after that, unfurling his long, slender fingers against Zayn's jawline with the grace of a feline. He starts to scratch against his beard carefully, the sound of it like tree leaves rustling. It's such a gentle pressure, sending goosebumps along Zayn's arms.

'I'sso manly,' Harry all but slurs, fingernails working their way down to Zayn's chin.

Zayn huffs out a laugh, if only to mask the flush of warmth that spreads through his chest.

Harry straightens up a bit, squaring his shoulders. He tilts in closer like he's examining something near Zayn's nose, forehead creasing as his breath cascades over the bottom of Zayn's face. Zayn has to fight the urge to back away.

'Could I try something?' Harry asks softly, but doesn't really wait for an answer. In the next moment, he slides his hand past Zayn's neck and down the back of his shirt collar, his gaudy rings cold where they catch against the knobs of his spine. His thumb presses into the nape of Zayn's neck, urging him closer.

Harry closes the last inch between them, his mouth coating Zayn's with a wet warmth when he slides their lips together.

Harry breaks away, but he doesn't go far, breathing hot and heavy against the newly moist skin surrounding Zayn's mouth. He nips at Zayn's bottom lip, first lightly, and then with more purpose, making him hiss. Zayn can't think beyond the sharp points where they're touching, his neck burning up and the space between his ears filled with static. His lips tingle in the aftermath of being bitten.

Like an apology for using his teeth, Harry peppers Zayn's mouth with gentle, open-mouthed kisses. First the corner of it, then over his Cupid's bow, then over to the other corner. He touches his lips to the patch of hair in the dip of Zayn's chin, and then finally glides them up into the centre of Zayn's mouth in a sucking kiss, lingering there the longest.

When he pulls away with a soft pop, he looks as dazed as Zayn feels, meeting his eyes a bit breathily.

'Happy birthday, Zayn,' he mumbles.

The moment they stop kissing, Zayn feels a cold air wash over him out of nowhere, rooting him into his spot as he scans Harry's face in a haze.

And then it hits him. They'd been kissing. Not just a peck like at Louis' party, but proper. With teeth and warmth and tenderness and the taste of mingled breath, something that they won't be able to forget even if they pretend to.

He shies away from Harry's touch instinctively at the realization. Harry's fingers slip out of his shirt and fall to the floor between them, curling into a loose fist. He's gone quiet, now, but his eyes are trained on Zayn, like maybe he's waiting for something. Hoping for something.

Zayn clears his throat and looks up to the clock on his wall, needing an excuse to busy himself with something that isn't Harry's face or his lips or his touch.

'S'getting late, isn't it?' he finally says, looking over at his cupcake, uneaten. He doesn't dare glance at Harry, even though he can see him in his periphery and feel the burn of his gaze following his every move.

Harry nods as if Zayn had said exactly the right thing, and that hurts the most, the idea that he's made Harry feel like he has to go along with Zayn's denial.

'Yeah, s'getting late,' he murmurs in agreement, and then, after a moment and with a cruel choice of words, 'I should probably let you go now, shouldn't I?'

Zayn nods wordlessly. His heart aches like it's been beaten with a bat long after Harry leaves.

\---

' _'You'll be unlucky in love,'_ ' Harry recites dramatically from around a Chupa Chups sucker that's putting an obscene dent in his cheek.

The newly-found sweet -- Harry came across it on his way to campus, but insisted that it was still in its wrapper and safe to eat -- has stained his lips a sugary shade deeper than usual.

Zayn averts his gaze when his own mouth starts to tingle at the sight. They haven't talked about his birthday since it happened, and Zayn doesn't want to test his luck, glad to carry on pretending nothing's changed between them. 

It's hard to look away from Harry, though. He always looks as if he belongs in perpetually sunny climates, not in the queen's miserable weather, bundled up in a million layers and lying in a patch of yellowing grass with his messenger bag for a pillow. He's got his feet lifted up onto the tree trunk in front of him, a gossip rag propped on his thighs. He drawls on, voice morbid as ever, and Zayn looks back at him with the excuse of being an active listener.

' _'Avoid introducing new players into your life, Aquarius, as they will be temporary at best, and a recipe for regret at worst...'_ ' Harry hums and tilts his head over to Zayn. 'Well, I'm feeling fairly optimistic.'

Zayn rolls his eyes up and away from Harry's face. Campus is fairly dead today, the quad dreary and grey, the air around them thick and stale with impending rain. They've decided to brave the bleakness for their shared Tuesday break, though, and there's a part of Zayn that's feeling surprisingly light and hopeful because of it.

He beats his crushed cigarette pack against his knee a few times until the fags loosen out of their place, then pulls one out and lights it, taking a long pull. He tilts his chin against his shoulder and blows the stream right into Harry's face, just to be a prick.

'Horoscopes are a load of bollocks,' he says, voice thick with smoke. 'You're not going to be any more unlucky in love this month than you've been all your life, are you?'

A sudden flicker of hurt passes over Harry's features before he turns back to stare at his magazine. Zayn's heart jumps to his throat with regret. He wants to reach out and tilt Harry's eyes back to his, apologize until any residual sadness smoothes away from his face, but he doesn't. His fingers start to itch with the need to establish contact. Before he can work up the courage to touch him, Harry's eyes light up unexpectedly and he turns a brilliant, goofy smile onto Zayn.

Zayn's eyebrows connect, thrown. 'What? Tell me.'

'They predict erectile dysfunction amongst most Capricorns,' Harry says, a threat of a giggle in his voice. 'You and Louis will have to find other ways to entertain yourself.'

Zayn clenches his cigarette firmly between his lips, freeing his hands up to snatch the magazine from Harry's lap. It flops shut, but he's quick to flick it back open to the offending page, eyes roving over the text until he finds the tell-tale sea-goat that holds his fate. He gives his cigarette a quick, harsh suck before he reaches up to pinch it away, reading aloud.

' _'Capricorn, beware the suave tongue of sweet-talkers. They'll soften you up where you should remain hardened, and expose you to avoidable pain.'_ Jesus Christ. This is such a load of it. How do these papers manage to stay in print?'

'Idiots like me?' Harry suggests airily, looking up at the tree branches hanging above them. When he speaks up again, Zayn thinks he hears Harry's voice catch on a couple of words, though it might be his own brain stuttering to catch up. 'What's your love life been like, then? Crap as mine or anything happen between you and that bird?'

'Which bird?' Zayn asks, playing dumb to buy himself some time and stave off the heart palpitations he knows are coming.

In his periphery, he can see Harry's full-headed eye roll that lands his cheek in the grass, the magnitude of his gaze all but palpable against Zayn's skin. Zayn ignores him, studiously leafing through the magazine in his lap.

'The only bird you've shown interest in over the past year,' Harry points out, like it's obvious. 'Melissa, I think her name was.'

'Ahhh. Marissa,' Zayn says mildly. He has a few more leisurely drags of his cigarette before putting it out in the grass, his voice coming out strained with smoke. 'I saw her the other day when I was out with you lot, but we didn't talk.'

Harry hums like he's considering this information with great care. He waits long enough that Zayn thinks maybe he'll drop the topic altogether, but then he carefully pushes himself up onto his elbows and reaches out for Zayn, grazing his knuckles against his knee.

'Hey,' Harry murmurs. 'D'you like her, you think?'

It's a loaded question, one that Zayn hadn't come prepared for, and he has to scramble for a safe answer as Harry stares at him expectantly.

'Sure,' Zayn settles on, flipping the page. 'What's there to dislike?'

There are a few things to dislike, really, but it's nothing to do with who Marissa is, and confusingly a lot to do with who she isn't. Zayn doesn't have the mental capacity to commit to that line of thought in broad daylight with the reason for his inner turmoil gazing at him intently.

'Well,' Harry says, the single syllable dragging on for too long as his fingers splay out to hold onto Zayn's knee, his palm warm and humid. 'Why don't you just text her, maybe?'

Zayn scoffs as if to dismiss the suggestion, ignoring the punishing kick his heart gives. 'You just want me to text her right now?'

'Yes, text her right now,' Harry insists, but when Zayn turns to look at him, there's something uncertain in the lines of his face, almost as though he's conducting a science experiment that could be fatal to everyone in the vicinity if just one thing goes wrong.

Zayn considers him closely, a challenge slipping into his tone despite himself. 'What's it to you, anyhow?'

Harry shrugs and drops his gaze, but Zayn can see the way he's gone thoughtful in profile as he rakes his free fingers through the grass, trudging up four parallel lines of dirt.

'Just want to see you happy, is all,' he says. There's a tenderness to his words that hits Zayn like a pile of bricks to the chest. Harry looks back up to meet Zayn's gaze, and the mix of emotions flickering over his face is so bare that Zayn has to look away before he's sick with it.

'Have I done anything to suggest I'm not?'

'You know what I mean,' Harry pushes vaguely, but his voice has gone resigned and weary around the edges, like the conversation is siphoning the energy from his bones. 'Don't be a tit. Just text her, Zayn.'

'And say what?'

'Say you're sorry for being an insufferable prick of epic proportions, and that you want to see her again if she's up for it.'

'And tell me again why I should be taking relationship advice from you?'

He doesn't mean it as a blow, but he gets the same dreadful twist in his stomach from when he put his foot in his mouth moments before. No one's ever claimed his brain works well under pressure. Thankfully, Harry only smirks this time, looking far too pleased with himself.

'Because I'm the only one of us who's had their cock sucked in the past year?'

Zayn rolls his eyes. He pulls his phone out from his back pocket, running his thumb over the screen. Harry tugs his lip between his teeth and stares at Zayn's mobile until his fingers start to twitch around it. Zayn takes a readying breath, but feels just as unprepared when he lets it go.

'Alright, then, Romeo,' he says, forcing the words out despite every fibre of his being fighting against them. 'Tell me what to send.'

Harry smiles, but Zayn isn't sure it comes anywhere near eyes.

 

***

 

Zayn glares unblinkingly at his canvas like they're having a staring contest.

Inanimate objects probably can't participate in staring contests, and even if they could, the portrait he's working on still doesn't have eyes blocked in to stare back at him with. Maybe he's losing his mind.

He wants to paint. He really, really does. But all he can think about is the last time Harry showed up to the studio. It's been weeks now, so long ago that Zayn doesn't even remember what he'd been wearing. That bothers him more than anything, not being able to reconstruct the memory properly in his mind. Harry had marvelled that the unfinished piece Zayn was working on was _so bloody wicked, like an alien_ , and Zayn had let it get to him then, feeling a bit self-important under the praise. He's exponentially less enamoured by his shoddy workmanship now.

He's been in the studio too long, surely. Every single garment hanging on his body is specked with some amount of paint -- his white t-shirt, his plaid button-up tied around his waist, the dark denim of his trousers and his scuffed-up boots that are in dire need of replacing. The floor is his victim, too. He's standing there with his arms by his sides, one set of limp fingers clutching a dripping brush above the tile, and a maddening _plop... plop... plop_ resounds around him.

He's so fucking blocked for inspiration that he could put a hole in the wall.

It's been three weeks since he started seeing Marissa, is the thing, and it's fucked things up for him in a monumental way, creatively-speaking. He hadn't really been planning on giving up so much of his studio time for hours of squeezing smooth thighs against his ears, or nights of seeing how far the two of them can push each other in his tangle of sheets without truly breaking apart. 

He doesn't let himself think about it often, but when he does, he sometimes finds that Marissa smells too sweet and her eyes are the wrong shade of green. She speaks in excited bursts of words and bounces on the soles of her feet even when she's supposed to be standing still. She's small enough to tuck herself underneath Zayn's arm when they're in the queue for coffee, and her hand fits easily into his when he orders for them, maddeningly soft.

He doesn't sleep better at night knowing she's his or that maybe he's hers, too -- sometimes he doesn't sleep at all, if he's honest -- but she makes him laugh so hard at times that rice noodles will shoot out of his nose, and she'll still kiss him after like it isn't the grossest thing she's ever seen. 

There's a small voice that tells him it's unhealthy, the fact that the more time he spends cozied up inside with her, the less he wants to check his emails or return calls or venture outdoors to the shop or come to the studio to paint. He's read so many books on his favourite artists and their muses, but he can't seem to connect the dots in his own life, all the sex and inspiration pushed to different corners of his brain, like two boxers on opposite ends of a ring readying themselves for battle.

He's in the middle of contemplating a much-needed smoke break -- or perhaps smashing his easel in two might take the edge off? -- when his phone buzzes once from the ground near his boot, snapping him out of his concentration.

Before he can talk himself out of the thought, he's hoping it's Harry. He's even praying it's him. It's almost laughable how Harry's presence in the studio -- doing his work at a table nearby and sneaking glances at Zayn's paintings when he thinks Zayn isn't paying attention -- went from being unsettling and unwanted to something Zayn needed in order to produce his best work. It's been so long since Harry has stopped by, and almost as long since he's randomly called or texted to speak to him, that Zayn feels suddenly panicked with it.

He takes a calming breath as he sets his paintbrush aside, flexing his aching fingers for a few moments before carefully crouching down to pick up his mobile, thumbing the message open.

_Heya picasso, hows it? Fancy a round of paintball just you + me? Loser buys lunch for a week, winner gloats til shes blue in the face with it.. :) Mari_

He lets his eyes rove aimlessly over the letters until he's dizzy from each vowel and consonant, feeling like he might laugh for no reason. Once his hands stop shaking and his chest expands enough for him to take a proper breath, he forces his thumbs to move against the keypad in reply.

 

***

 

Harry’s birthday lands on a Saturday night, and it doesn't take long for Zayn to wish he’d stayed home for it. Instead, he’s sitting in a rainbow-covered pub in the depths of the village, dampening an impending panic attack with another glass of sangria.

The wheels were set in motion a few days ago when Louis created a Whatsapp group demanding Zayn, Liam and Niall help him devise a plan that would end in Harry having a load of sex. Zayn left the group almost as soon as he was invited to it, blocking all future attempts Louis made to re-add him. On the most basic level, Zayn just didn't want to be an accomplice to Louis' notoriously disastrous meddling efforts, but something uglier and more urgent bubbled beneath his skin, making its presence known.

Zayn hasn't ever been a delusional person, per se. He thinks of himself as realistic and rational, for the most part. With or without their help, he knows that Harry's going to move on and find someone to shag. But the idea of it happening so soon -- happening _tonight_ \-- nags at Zayn until his vision swims out of focus. The last time he'd seen Harry with anyone else was in his own flat, falling apart underneath Damien's mouth. The thought of him giving himself over to someone else like that, arching his back and pulling their hair and keening their name like he's dying from it, triggers a wave of nausea in Zayn that makes him lightheaded beyond the drinks and the half-pack of cigarettes he's had.

He and Harry had found themselves on mysteriously better terms over the last week. A few stilted texts between them one night -- when Zayn was buzzed and brave off two bowls he'd smoked alone -- turned into a few more natural exchanges the morning after, and they soon were back to their daily interactions with a renewed ease.

Until yesterday evening, Harry had been texting Zayn to ask him if he knew what was going on with Louis, always punctuating his questions with a series of bewildered question marks, because apparently Louis was managing to act even weirder and more suspect than usual. 

Harry had been perceptive enough to know they were planning his birthday, and his only request had been that he wanted it to be just them five and 'significant others', no one else. It might have had something to do with the fact that so many strangers showed up to Harry's last party that the cops had to shut it down, and Harry had been drunk enough to become inconsolable over it, sitting tearfully in the tub with his umpteenth bottle of Stella telling them it was all his fault.

Louis sent out a mass text message just before midnight last night, this time including Harry as a recipient, that had all the finalized details: _HARRY BDAY BASH ! Drinks at mine tomorow 10pm then hitting a bar after , don't be late !'_ (Zayn got an individual text that just reiterated: 'DON'T BE LATE !!')

That all brought them here. Sitting in Julio's with Marissa by Zayn's side, the lot of them having too many drinks in their semicircle booth while an obnoxious Katy Perry remix plays overhead. It would've been a standard outing just like any other, really, if it weren't for the two blokes snogging a few tables over from them, directly in Zayn's line of vision, making him sweat like it was middle of summer. Every time he tries to focus on anything else, his eyes wander back of their own accord, his curiosity getting the best of him, cataloging their every kiss as if that were a normal thing to do.

To Zayn's marginal relief, Harry hasn't found anyone to get off with yet. He's been getting steadily tipsier and more giggly as the night wears on, though, and Zayn has to keep restraining himself from reaching across the table to touch his hand and ask if he'd like some water, or if he maybe fancied a cuddle. He knows how much Harry likes to be cuddled when he's had a few, and even Louis is sitting too far from him to oblige.

He's glad that Harry has taken off the 'birthday boy' sash and tiara he'd been wearing earlier, because that had attracted far too many wolf whistles from the blokes around them, making bile rise to the top of Zayn's throat every time he thought _this is it, this is the one Harry's going to go home with_.

Something knocks Zayn's foot underneath the table, snapping him out of his thoughts. He doesn't think anything of it until he realizes that Harry's long leg has stretched out so that the inside of his boot is lined up against Zayn's, nudging it in a way that seems unmistakably purposeful. He waits for Harry to pull away, but instead he traps Zayn's ankle between both of his feet and pulls Zayn's leg toward him like it's the most casual thing, having their limbs tangled together where no one can see. Zayn checks to see if maybe Harry's trying to grab his attention, but he finds him smiling and lost in conversation with Niall. It makes a pool of warmth gather in the pit of Zayn's stomach, making him feel like he's participating in something far worse than he really is.

Liam comes back to their table with a round of shots, but it's Louis raucous exclamation of 'To Harry's prick and its good fortune!' that yanks Zayn out of his thoughts. It prompts a celebratory click of their glasses in the middle of the table, and Zayn maybe bangs his shot a bit too hard, the clear liquid sloshing over onto his fingers before he knocks it back.

'Alright, time t'do this, lads!' Niall announces with a burp, quickly amending to add _and you, m'lady_ with a courteous nod in Marissa's direction. He scrawls all their initials on a napkin, separating them with lines. 'No rules, and check y'r dignity at the door. The person who gets the most amount of gay phone numbers wins, and the person who gets the least amount of gay phone numbers has t'buy everyone a final round before last call.'

'They're just _phone numbers_ ,' Harry rolls his eyes, at the same time that Marissa squawks, 'That's _well_ unfair.'

She gestures at their surroundings as if it should be obvious, but Niall just raises his eyebrows at her cluelessly. 

'I'm only one of three girls here tonight, and the other two are here _together_?' she says. 'Who will I get off with if there aren't any fit single girls for me to pull?'

Zayn finds himself feeling as inexplicably guilty by her spiel as he is drunk off fruity wine, so he barely has to think before he looks over at her and says, 'You can pull me all you want, babe.'

'What good will that do?' she pouts. 'Much as I like you, it won't earn me any points when I've already pulled you a million times.'

Louis tuts loudly. 'I'm afraid Niall doesn't make the rules and neither do I, love. All I can say is believe in yourself and get creative with your lady bits.'

'Easy for you to say. With an arse like yours, you'll be sure to bag every bloke in here.'

Zayn can feel a scuffle beneath the table and a subsequent pained groan from Louis as he grabs his shin, suggesting that she'd kicked it. Zayn kisses her in appreciation of her efforts, their teeth knocking on accident and prompting them to break away with matching winces and soft laughs.

Zayn looks up to find Harry is staring at him with his brows knitted and his mouth set in a straight line. Zayn fixes his eyes on him inquisitively, his stomach churning with even more guilt, but Harry glances away as soon as he's caught, focusing on Niall instead as he drags the mostly-emptied pitcher of sangria toward him from the other side of the table.

His feet lock around Zayn's under the table, squeezing his leg closer almost possessively as he pours out the last of the drink into his glass and finishes it off in one go. He swallows hard, using the empty glass to gesture at the rest of the table, landing mostly on Zayn in the end. 'I thought this was about my getting off, not you lot of heterosexuals.'

Zayn's neck goes warm at the subtle jab, clearly intentional, but he looks away from Harry coolly in hopes that no one else has caught on.

Louis humphs, oblivious to any tension, and says, 'You talk a big game, curly. Why don't you just show us all this charm in action?'

The challenge isn't directed at him, but Zayn feels the implications of it pulling his shoulders taut and making his insides bristle all the same, and he silently prays that Harry won't rise up to the bait. A cheeky smirk lights up Harry's face in increments when Zayn checks for his reaction from beneath his lashes, his eyes sparkling where they're fixed on Louis' from across the table. He's practically purring when he says, 'Kiss me good luck, Lou?'

Zayn looks over at Louis after a moment of hesitation, in no hurry to see his response. Everyone else has the same idea, waiting for Louis to do something, watching in unison as his eyebrows shoot up to his messy fringe before a distinctly impish look flashes across his features.

Louis leans his weight across the table, eliciting a gleeful laugh from Harry like maybe he hadn't expected Louis to be up for it. They meet in the middle of the table until their noses touch, and then Harry's cupping Louis' face in both hands, painfully tender as he strokes his cheekbones with his thumbs and kisses him right there for all of them to see.

It's dizzying, just how instantaneously jealous Zayn feels that Harry's affections aren't reserved for him. His insides feel raw like they'd been skinned. There's a dull backdrop of sounds that's rivalled by his own pulse -- Niall's catcalls, Liam's bewildered curses from underneath his breath, and Marissa's laughter beside him. Mostly there's just scratchy, escalating noise between Zayn's ears that's so loud it makes him nauseated.

Finally, _finally_ , Louis and Harry break away from one another, and everyone but Zayn claps and hoots for them. Niall pinches his bottom lip between two fingers and whistles like his favourite derby team has scored. Zayn doesn't know how long the kiss lasted, can't imagine it was for more than a moment or two, but it feels like an hour has gone by and Zayn is wound up so tightly in the aftermath that he can't bring himself to make eye contact with anyone lest he burst.

'Good one, mate,' Niall tells Harry, voice coloured with laughter.

Louis smirks and says, 'Try to top that, birthday boy.'

Harry just rolls his eyes and dips his hand into the pitcher of sangria, long fingers raking through the melting ice cubes to retrieve an unnaturally red cherry. He sticks it into his mouth and hollows his cheeks around it, tongue visibly twirling behind sealed lips that Zayn suddenly can't tear his gaze away from. Harry's eyes shimmer as he pulls out the knotted stem moments later only to drop it back into the pitcher, receiving another round of cheers from the table.

'Unbelievable,' Liam says. 'You're a bloody slag, Hazza.'

Harry smirks like he's been complimented and slips out of the booth, almost tripping over himself as he gets to his to his feet, and it takes everything in Zayn not to reach out and steady him.

'Alright,' he says, voice rough as he leans his hip against the side of the table, tangling both hands into his curls. 'Um. How do I look?'

'You're a thing of beauty,' Marissa assures. 'A vision in black.'

Harry actually blushes at that, biting his lip. 'Thank you, Mari. If I weren't so into blokes I reckon I'd fancy the knickers off you.'

Marissa laughs. Zayn feels like he might be sick.

'Go on, then!' Louis urges, throwing an ice cube at Harry. 'You're not going to pull someone just standing here. Go find your mate and pollinate his brains out. Don't fucking knock yourself up.'

Harry rolls his eyes, but he turns his back to them obediently. He ambles up to the bar in his drainpipe jeans, scratched-up boots and vintage Stones shirt, leaning against the counter and waiting like a teenager at a bus stop. Even from a distance Zayn can tell he's chewing on the hangnail of his thumb. 

Zayn feels an uncomfortable punch of protectiveness over him. He tries to tell himself it's for valid reasons; hadn't Harry had too much to drink for a random hook-up? Should they really be pressuring him into spending his birthday like this? He knows, on some level, that he's being unreasonable and selfish. Harry's old enough to make his own choices, and there's no time to try to intervene now, anyway. It takes Harry less than a minute to attract one of the fittest blokes in his vicinity -- tall and dark-skinned and well-dressed. Zayn's ribcage feels like it might actually be trying to cave in on his heart, or like it's trying to keep it contained. He can't read their lips from this far, but the last thing he sees before he forces his gaze away is Harry ducking his head and laughing.

Zayn's eyes travel over to Marissa, and he's caught off-guard to find her already looking at him with soft eyes. 

'You okay, love?' she asks.

He squeezes her knee gently and nods, forcing a small smile. 'Yeah, good. I'll be back in a bit, yeah? To the loo and then a smoke.'

She cups his cheek in her hand, pressing a succession of kisses to his lips that he tries to return, then she slips out of the booth to make way for his exit. She doesn't push to join him for a fag like she usually would, but that's probably because everyone seems to have become too invested in Harry's sex life to move from their spot. When Zayn spares the other three a glance, he finds that they all look impossibly eager to watch their best friend try to pull, cementing his need to get out of there.

He makes his way through the crowd in search of the washrooms, counting his steps to give his mind something to focus on other than the litany of _Harry, Harry, Harry_ playing on a loop in his brain. A few defaced signs -- one of them has 'swallowing is polite! :)' scribbled in Sharpie near the bottom -- lead him downstairs, and he's happy for the bit of distance it affords him.

The toilets are a small, cramped affair with heavily graffitied walls and a plethora of posters advertising DJs, drag performers and decidedly erotic 'special events'. He's absorbed in them for a while, morbidly curious as to what sorts of things happen in places like this, but once he spots a particularly rude one with two men in arseless chaps holding whips, he averts his gaze so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. He rubs the crick in his neck with a wince, the urinals ahead reminding him of the task at hand. He walks over with a deep breath and relieves himself as his heart finally starts to slow to a manageable pace.

He washes up in a daze, but he still feels a bit unsteady while he's drying his hands off, moving to rest his back against the wall and shutting his eyes. For what feels like an age, he lets himself bask in the relative quiet. He tries to 're-centre' himself like his counsellor used to tell him to do, but then the door bangs open and he jolts upright in a panic, his heart hammering all over again.

Two blokes stumble in together in a fit of laughter, and Zayn recognizes them as as the ones who'd been snogging a few tables over from him earlier. They give him inexplicably knowing smiles before giggling into each other's necks, moving as a unit into a stall and leaving Zayn just as unsettled as when he'd come down here.

He lets free a rattled breath and, upon hearing the unmistakable sound of belts unbuckling, forces his legs to carry him out the door and up the stairs two at a time, heading back through the crowd and toward the smoker's exit on autopilot.

It's a good idea, the cold whoosh of air making Zayn more aware of the drinks coursing through his system, reminding him that he needs to breathe. The night air soothes his skin where it'd gone hot and tight indoors, allowing him to come up to the surface from the mental depths he'd slipped into. He smokes two cigarettes in a row, finishing them off in slow, deep pulls that border on painful, leaving his throat aching for reprieve by the time he's considering a third. He glances at the time on his phone and figures he's been gone for at least half an hour now; if he doesn't go back inside in the next few minutes, Marissa will start to worry.

He allows himself another moment of cold, biting wind before he hauls the door open by its sticky handle, stepping back into the humidity of the pub and preparing himself for what he’s returning to. He shoves his hands into his pockets, squaring his shoulders as he starts to make his way back to their table, thinking up an excuse in case he's asked about his absence. Before he can formulate one, though, he's stopped dead in his tracks by what he sees at the bar, staggering one step backward.

People come and go ahead of him, but all he can see with any ounce of clarity is _Harry, Harry, Harry_. Harry being held against the bar by the hips. Harry with his fingers tangled in someone else's hair. Harry being snogged and snogging back. Harry chasing the random bloke's mouth in between kisses like he's dying for it.

Someone crashes into Zayn from behind and jostles him forward. He can barely think through the sudden rush of blood to his ears. He can only keep staring, ignoring the irritated telling off he's getting from some burly man with whiskey breath. His senses swim in and out of focus, legs becoming numb and weightless, ground wobbling beneath him as if it might crack open and swallow him up.

He stands there too long, watching through a haze of alcohol as Harry's hands grip the bloke's neck like its a lifeline. The hairs on Zayn's nape stand to attention as if it were him. His heart thumps against his ribcage punishingly hard at the realization that that it could never actually _be_ him -- kissing Harry so desperately, so satisfyingly rough in plain sight of everyone they know.

Something -- someone -- makes contact with Zayn's hand and he's about to lash out against the intrusion, snatch his arm away and hold it to his chest defensively as he tells whoever it is to fuck off, but just before he does, he sees that it's only Marissa. Her fingers circle the knobs his wrist, pulling him out of his daze with a worried look, and it's dizzying how quickly he goes from noticing nothing but _Harry, Harry, Harry_ to noticing everything else all at once.

'Babe,' she frowns, her voice soft and calculating like she's afraid she'll spook him. He drifts into her as she curls a hand against the side of his neck. 'You look poorly. Are you alright? Were you sick just now?'

Zayn swallows against the lump in his throat and nods. The lie comes too easily to him, even as guilt begins to line his stomach. 

'Yeah,' he says in agreement. 'M'thinking -- m'thinking I should probably call it a night.'

His voice is rough and thick, and he hopes it makes the idea of him having retched seem more authentic. He wants to laugh, bitter and incredulous, because this is what his life has come to. Trying to convince his girlfriend that he's been sick so she doesn't figure out he wants to touch one of his mates the way he’s only meant to touch her.

Marissa nods with furrowed brows. 'Would you like me to join you? I can make you a brew before bed and make sure--'

'No,' Zayn murmurs, dropping his forehead to hers and allowing his eyes to fall shut, needing a break from seeing the mess he's in. There are tears prickling against the insides of his eyelids, but he fights to keep his voice steady when he says, 'I'll be alright. Get your rest and I'll call you tomorrow, yeah?'

'Yeah,' she whispers back, standing with him for a long while before nudging their noses together. 'C'mon, then. I'll walk you out.'

\--

Zayn doesn't quite realize how much he's had until he's at the door to his unit, talking to his keys. He's mostly telling them off, because the copies have all duplicated and gone fuzzy around the edges, trying to make a mockery of his state. He's seconds away from chucking them down the hallway and calling it a night on his welcome mat, only it's too warm out here and all the drinks he's had are burning uncomfortably in his gut.

It didn't help that Marissa suggested he say goodbye to the boys before he left Julio's, which led to Louis insisting that Zayn do one more round of shots with them first. So he did. And then another. And then a third round for good measure, when he realized Harry wasn't even at the fucking bar anymore.

Marissa didn't seem too happy that Zayn was drinking after claiming he'd been sick, but she gave him her best _we'll talk about this later_ eyes and poured him into a taxi, telling the driver his address. Zayn doesn't remember much of the cab ride except how queasy he was every time they drove past bright lights, and how he had to squeeze his eyes shut against the streets whipping past him for the most of it.

He knows that when they were passing by Harry's old neighbourhood, he took out his mobile and started to type in message after message before realizing he had no idea what letters he was actually punching in. So he abandoned his phone in a fit of frustration and shut his eyes again, dropping his head back against the seat rest and allowing himself to think of his own birthday just last month when Harry had kissed him, his mouth tingling at the memory.

It's a miracle that he gets to his flat in one piece, if he's honest. It takes him a while to finally unlock his unit, now, but he does it sometime after the fifth try. He shoves inside with a bang, the door knocking against the entry table as he stumbles through. He tries to throw his keys onto the tabletop as he kicks the door shut, but it all goes a bit wrong, and there's a loud clang as the keyring skids against the floor and hits the wall instead.

Whatever.

He toes off his boots and starts to strip messily as he heads to his bed, dropping his shirt and jacket to the floor, nearly braining himself when he tries to shove off his clothes and walk at the same time. He makes it to the bed in just his lopsided boxer briefs, grabbing his laptop from the bedside table and dropping down on the mattress, setting the computer down between his parted legs.

Zayn flinches at the first assault of bright light when he pulls the screen up, but his reactions are dampened and slowed with booze. He rubs his hands over his scalp and his stomach starts to churn, too afraid to type in what's on his mind. He finally settles trembling fingers on the keyboard, though it takes him a while to actually hit the keys in the right order before he's Googling 'gay porn'. His heart thumps hard enough that he thinks it might break through a rib before he's through hitting enter.

It's a proper blur after that, like nothing Zayn's ever experienced before.

He clicks into the first half-decent video he finds with the word 'twink' in the title, which turns out to be a clip of a tall blond bloke fucking a shorter brunette on a bed. It's not really what he wants to see at all, but then he doesn't really pay it any attention as he spreads his legs further where they're bracketing the laptop, bent at the knees. He deliberately forgoes spitting into his hand, sliding punishingly dry fingers underneath the waistband of his briefs and tugging. He thinks of nothing but Harry. Harry's hair in the cradle of his hands, Harry's chest against his chest, Harry's mouth against his mouth.

He feels sick to his stomach. The blokes are moaning all wrong from his computer, and he kicks his leg out with a desperate whine in hopes of shoving the sound away from him, getting his foot tangled in the sheets and forcing the laptop to twist sideways. He drops his forehead to his knee as he bucks into his fist in small thrusts, becoming breathless and dizzy with it. The pump of his hand is bordering on painful, now, but that does nothing to stave off his impending release.

His brain floods with the scent of Harry and the taste of his tongue and the image of him splayed out on Zayn's bed like he belongs there. With a sudden jerk of his hips, there's a spread of warmth spilling over his fingers, pulsing time after time like there might be no end to it, unraveling from his core. He realizes, numbly and with a vicious ringing in his ears, that that means he's finally come, but the sensation has done nothing to take the edge off as he slows his hand down miserably.

There's a flash of quiet from around him, then a revolting sound of skin slapping against skin comes from his laptop. He's rooted on his arse with some phantom weight holding him in place, and before he can really locate his strength, his shoulders start shaking violently. His cheeks are hot and wet, his face screwing up so tightly that his temples throb. He takes a deep, trembling breath and pushes up from the bed as a fresh wave of nausea hits, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to get to the toilet bowl.

The last thing he remembers after being sick is coming back to the room and finding that the video playing on his laptop has ended. He snaps his computer shut and slides it to the ground carelessly, and by some miracle, he falls asleep as soon as his face hits the pillow.

\--

Just by virtue of being alive, Zayn doesn't know what it would feel like to be dead, but he supposes it would feel something like this. His bones are bruised with vague memories of last night, joints aching dully as if he'd run them through a blender before gluing them back together, and there's this shrill ringing coming from someplace nearby that rattles deep behind his skull with each passing moment.

He burrows further into his pillow, folding it over his ears as he fights to hold onto the last tendrils of rest, but even after his flat goes quiet for a few blessed moments that renew his faith in God, the ringing starts up again, brutal and unrelenting as it drills into his brain. He pushes up to his elbows with a tired groan, barely opening his eyes to fumble for his mobile on the bedside table, answering it with a grunt.

There's only silence on the other end, and Zayn is just about to hang up blearily and drop the phone off the side of the bed when a familiar voice breaks through.

'Zayn? You alright?'

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut. He drops his head against his forearm, allowing the words to settle upon his ears. He's not even looking at the room around him, but he can feel it spinning in circles as his stomach twists and gurgles in agony. He knows it's all part of the hangover he did more than his share to deserve, but he can't help but think that some of it is a simmering shame.

'Harry,' he croaks deeply in greeting.

'You alright?' Harry asks again, making Zayn's skin itch in discomfort. 'Did I wake you? Go back to sleep, m'sorry.'

He sounds impossibly tender, like everything Zayn needs in that moment and everything that he can't deal with in any capacity. It takes everything in him not to just hang up.

'S'all good. You woke me, but it's fine. What's going on, anyway? You alright?'

'Yeah, I just,' Harry says, keeping his voice considerately low. 'You promised you'd come with me to take a look at the room that freed up at Niall and Liam's place, remember? S'all good if you can't, could go alone.'

'Fuck.' Zayn had completely forgotten about that in the whirlwind of... everything else that was going on. He sits up in bed carefully, sheets pulling and snagging around his hips. He massages fingertips into his temple, trying and failing to coax the ache from behind it, or at least soothe the throbbing. 'Is that today?'

'Yeah. I'm just going to grab the key off the landlord in about an hour. It's only a few tube stops over from the hostel I'm staying at and I'm nearer to you, so if you wanted, you could come here first and we could grab the train together...'

Zayn lets his eyes fall shut, trying to process all of Harry's long-winded, rumbling statements in his own sordid state. The idea of seeing him so soon after last night only makes Zayn feel worse, like getting a whiff of whisky too soon after a debauched night out. He wants to come up with some excuse to beg out of it and buy himself some time to wallow and feel sorry himself, or at least figure out a way to move past all of this on his own time, but what comes out of his lips is, 'Let me have a shower and get some coffee. I'll meet you at yours. Text me the address, will you?'

'Are you certain?' Harry asks. 'I can go alone, really, it's no trouble. You sound really poorly. I just, like, wanted to get your opinion--'

'I'll meet you at yours, Harry,' Zayn interjects, pinching his temple again and swallowing against rising bile. 

Maybe no coffee, then.

\--

When Harry opens the door, he looks fresh out of the shower but still messy with the happenings of the night before. It's an appearance only he's perfected. Zayn's never seen anyone pull it off before, least of all himself; he's either visibly rumpled and worn-out or meticulously styled, never a picture-perfect mixture of both.

Harry, though, his face is puffy with an evident lack of sleep, and he's in the same pair of jeans that are ripped at the knees with a stain near the inseam, but he smiles to one side like his insides aren't shriveling up with regret, which must be nice. Everything about him is heady. Even from the doorway, his room smells something like sweat, stale booze and the desperation of sex. There's a blooming bruise at the base of his throat that tells Zayn all he’s been dreading to find out, and his mouth is bitten red and raw.

Zayn shouldn't have agreed to this.

'Sorry about the mess,' Harry offers half-heartedly, leaving the door open as he kicks a small pile of clothes under his desk. His mattress is unmade, the duvet nearly all the way to the floor. 'Haven't really had a chance to clean since, like, last month.'

'No worries,' Zayn says, but he takes an instinctive step backward instead of forward. 'Should we maybe just head out so we're not late?'

'Oh, um.' Harry's eyebrows are cinched as he glances around the room, calculating his surroundings like they're new to him. He locates his white Converse shoes from where they seem to have been kicked off haphazardly, maybe in a rush, maybe while Harry was being kissed bruisingly hard and backed towards the bed. 

He sits on the edge of his mattress and starts to put his shoes on amidst the awkward silence, straightening up when he's done and grabbing his wallet, keys and a thick woolly cardigan. He looks up at Zayn and meets his eyes uncertainly like he knows something's not quite right, but Zayn only nods for them to go, tongue feeling thick and useless in his mouth.

Besides a few feeble attempts at conversation on Harry's end that he quickly gives up on -- and the crackle of Zayn's cigarette burning down with each drag -- the walk to the tube is filled with a loaded nothingness. Harry keeps tugging on the wristband of his watch in the periphery of Zayn's vision. It's a nervous tick, Zayn knows him well enough to know that, but it doesn't stop him from wanting to reach out and grab him still with every clack of metal.

They make their way onto the train without incident, sitting across from one another instead of side-by-side. Zayn tips his head against the window behind him and shuts his eyes, hands buried into the front pocket of his jumper, letting the rumble of the tracks pacify him. It's not until a few stops later that he feels something knock against his shoe, and when he blinks his eyes open, he finds Harry staring at him.

Harry pulls his legs beneath his seat so he can lean forward onto his elbows and set his chin onto his fists, surveying Zayn's face. 'You okay? Acting a bit strange.'

'Just tired.'

Harry pinches his eyebrows in concern. 'Rough night?'

 _You would know,_ Zayn wants to say with a nod toward Harry's love bite, but he holds his tongue against the unnecessary snipe, knowing he has no right to it.

'Something like that.'

The train slows to a stop, then, and Harry stands to his feet, drifting toward Zayn and holding a hand out. 'That's us.'

Zayn eyes Harry's hand but can't bring himself to take it, pushing up without his help and ignoring the flicker of confused hurt that passes across his face. 

'Lead the way.’

Harry stares at him for just a moment too long before he ducks his head and nods, pushing his hands into his pockets as he hunches his shoulders and walks them through the sliding doors.

They get to the duplex after another stilted walk, and a gruff man by the name of Geoffrey greets them on the porch to take them inside. He's a peculiar bloke with this weird twitch to his eye that doesn't ever stop, but Zayn thinks he seems harmless enough. He already knows Harry, apparently, has met him once before, and so the two of them chatter away as Geoffrey leads them upstairs to the vacant room, telling them to have a look around and give him a shout if they've got any questions. 

The door creaks shut behind him when he's gone, loud and ominous and a bit unnerving, leaving the bare room bathed in quiet. It smells like wet wood and old carpeting, immediately reminiscent of the bookstore Zayn works at. 

He twists around and touches his fingers to the built-in closet and his fingertips come away with dust. He’s about to make a comment on the space being a cozy one, but Harry sniffles, and the sound roots him in his spot with terror. He looks over after a moment’s hesitation, and he finds Harry’s face has crumpled into a look of red-rimmed eyes and tight, quivering lips.

'You've no right to do this to me, you know,' he says, voice trembling.

Zayn feels his heart lurch to his throat. He parts his lips in preparation to respond, but nothing comes out as he registers just how upset Harry looks, the words turning to stone in his chest.

Harry runs a hand through his curls, holds them off his forehead and, before Zayn can even make sense of the shifting mood around them, continues talking.

'You've no right to -- to, like, act as if you care about me one day and then freeze me out the next, or whatever. I'm not some _nuisance_.'

Zayn's head spins. He wants to be a better man, but he barely manages a cowardly, mumbled reply as it is. 'What are you talking about?'

' _This_ ,' Harry says, like it's obvious and like it hurts him to even say it, his hand dropping from his hair to slap against his thigh. 'Today. And yesterday. I'd fucking -- I don't _know_ , Zayn. I'd probably do a lot of really stupid things for you, and you're just. I don't even know what you are. You make me feel like I've lost my bloody mind.'

'Harry,' Zayn says, heartbeat coming in quick and painful, difficult to speak around.

Harry squares his shoulders, adding length to his already towering frame, and yet everything about him seems fragile and uncertain. 'And then that _stupid_ text you sent me last night, on my birthday of all days--'

Zayn's blood runs cold, rushing to his neck. 'Wait, stop -- what text?'

Harry huffs a small, shivery sound that barely gets past his lips. He ducks his head and presses a knuckle to his tear duct, then looks back up and swallows. 

'I could barely read it with how drunk you were, but the sentiment seemed to be that you were done with me. And if that's the truth, then just say it to my face, please. You've made it clear that I'm not entitled to much from you, but I think I'm maybe at least entitled to that.'

Zayn tries to keep the room from spinning. He doesn't even remember what he'd typed into his phone last night, but he was certain -- he was so certain that he'd never actually hit send.

'I'm not done with you,' Zayn says, settling his eyes onto Harry's, voice brimming with distant regret. 'Harry, I was -- I was so drunk --'

'I don't know what you are anymore,' Harry shrugs, a defeated air surrounding him. 'I thought I did, but I really, really don't.' He stops, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, cheeks burning pink as he looks away. 'And I've been trying really bloody hard to move on with everything that's happened in the past month, but I'm just so --'

Zayn doesn't say anything, terrified into a sudden silence, Harry's words engulfing him like water. It's a while before any of them moves, and of course it's Harry who's brave enough, drifting a few miserable steps forward like he doesn't want to bridge the gap between them but can't help himself. He sways closers until he's right there, wrapping his arms around Zayn's neck and tipping their foreheads together, stifling a whimper against Zayn's lips.

'I'm just so fucked, Zayn.'

Zayn waits until his heart has dislodged itself from his throat before he lifts unsteady hands to cup Harry's face, thumbs pressing carefully against his cheekbones. He can feel Harry's damp, trembling breath where it hits his face, a sheet of humidity that coats Zayn’s lips and burrows in his coarse beard. He shuts his eyes and allows himself a shaky breath to match it, long and drawn-out, and on the gradual exhale, he starts to walk them forwards, step by step by step until Harry's back hits the wall, spine arching off of it with a wince that Zayn cuts off with his mouth. It's a so shocking at first it nearly winds him. Zayn pinches his face like he’s been struck in the gut, sliding his hands into Harry's hair to hold him steady, and he keeps their lips latched together until he’s dizzy with all the oxygen he’s not breaking away for.

Their mouths only slide apart when they both keen like they can’t take anymore, unfastening with a wet sound. Zayn pants short and heavy into Harry’s lips, barely managing to stay away for a few seconds before launching himself forward again, their tongues becoming tangled up in the next instant. Zayn tugs Harry into the kiss by his curls and Harry whines from deep in his throat, sliding his hands down to Zayn's arse and squeezing it in his fingers.

Zayn feels delirious with want. He wants to keep kissing Harry just like this, but he can’t resist moving onto more of him, anxious for a taste. He dips his head to suck onto Harry's chin, his jawline, down to the mark on his throat, nipping it viciously enough to elicit a pained hiss. He moves his mouth to the jut of Harry’s cheekbone in the next second, smearing him with spit, and Harry moans in response this time, pressing up against Zayn's thigh so that he can feel him. He’s hot and hard and lewd enough to make Zayn's own length fatten painfully in its confines. Harry must feel him, too, because within the span of a breath, he's flipping them around and pressing Zayn up against the wall with his weight, kissing him rough and desperate from his mouth to his throat, running his lips down Zayn's front as he slides to the ground. His teeth catch on the material of Zayn’s jeans when he lands on his knees, but he doesn't say a word, unbuckling Zayn's belt with eager fingers as his chest heaves visibly.

Zayn bangs his head back against the wall and stares at the ceiling, tucking a hand into Harry's hair just as Harry yanks Zayn's jeans and briefs down in one go, exposing him to the cold air. Zayn lets out a dry sob, overwhelmed.

Harry slides his hands up the back of Zayn's thighs, pushing the hairs there against the grain as he kisses breathless words into to the underside of Zayn's cock. 'Do you want me to stop? Zayn. Tell me. Tell me to stop, please.'

Zayn shakes his head miserably. It's the last thing he wants. The last thing he wants is for Harry to be anywhere that isn't on his knees in front of Zayn, but he can hear his mum's voice in his head, _is there anyone sweet you'd like to introduce me to?_ He thinks of the concern etched into his girlfriend's face last night as she poured him into a taxi and feels, for a moment, like he might burst out of his skin.

A wet, velvety heat slides down his shaft, bringing his back right off the wall. The inside of Harry’s mouth encases him inch by inch, the ridged roof of it sending shivers down Zayn's spine. It only takes a moment for Harry’s throat to begin fluttering around the head of Zayn's cock, working to accommodate more and more of him, until Zayn can feel rather than see Harry’s nose pressed into the unshaved patch of pubic hair at his base. Harry stays down long enough to make Zayn dizzy, swallowing around him every few moments like he's clearing saliva before pulling up and off, replacing his mouth with his hand. Zayn thinks, distantly, that the disappearance of Harry's mouth should allow him a moment to regain his composure and maybe catch his breath, but it doesn't. Harry's fingers are just as unbearable, wrapping around his entire shaft in a way that no one else's ever has.

Zayn curls his hands into useless fists atop Harry's shoulders, afraid to use them to touch. He can't even watch Harry do this; just the image he's conjuring up in his head is overstimulating him, and he thinks one look at Harry's wet mouth and splotched cheeks will have him coming undone sooner than he can handle. It doesn't take long either way. Harry knows what he's doing -- of course he does, Zayn's never had a doubt -- and it's all too much for him, the devastating intensity of sensation. 

Harry alternates his mouth and his hand and his mouth and his hand and Zayn can't even warn him when his release hits, just fists a hand in his own hair as he cants his hips into the circle of Harry's fingers, careening over the edge with a force he's never known before. It feels like forever that he's coming, back twisted away from the wall and thighs trembling, but then he's collapsing back with a drawn-out groan that gurgles long and slow in his throat, shoulders curling almost in pain, his cock pulsing between the webs of Harry's fingers and covering them in warm jets of white.

Zayn breathes heavily, the tension in his body dissipating so quickly that it leaves him reeling, legs turning to jelly as they fight to keep him upright. He feels detached from his limbs, and it takes him too long to relocate himself in the room. When he manages to blink his eyes open and cast them downward, he sees Harry slumped over his hipbone, right shoulder jerking steadily as he keens under his breath. Zayn shudders at the realization that Harry is finishing himself off. He curls his fingers deep into Harry's hair, flexing them experimentally, and Harry freezes up underneath the contact as if it's the last straw, as if Zayn has pushed him over the same edge he was on moments ago. Harry moans, then, strangled and heartfelt right against Zayn's hipbone, and a beat later, he's shuddering bodily, panting against Zayn's thigh.

Both of them are wordless as they attempt to regain their breath, the room becoming surreally still around them, neither making an effort to move out of their spots or clean up their messes. A realization of what they'd done washes over Zayn in increments. He’s about to just give up and slump to the ground like his knees are begging him to, but a dull stomping sound makes his ears perk up and his body go rigid, the telltale thump of footsteps coming from outside. Harry looks up at Zayn with a flash of diluted panic in his eyes, and in the next second, they're both struggling to their feet.

Harry shrugs off his cardigan to clean off his hands as Zayn pulls up his jeans and does up his flies on autopilot, heart hammering in his chest and loud in his ears. The two of them barely manage to make themselves look halfway presentable before the knock they’re expecting comes.

Harry clears his throat and spares Zayn one last frantic look before bunching his cardigan up and looking ahead, calling out for Geoffrey to come in.

The handle twists and the landlord pops his head inside. 'So, what do we think, then, lads?'

Harry looks around, a hint of bewilderment to his actions as he takes in his surroundings. He glances back ahead and nods jerkily. 'I'll -- I'll take it, I think. If that's alright by you.'

'Brilliant! Right you are, it's alright. Why don't we have you downstairs to take a look at the lease and keep on from there?'

Zayn runs a hand through his hair, and in a moment of fight or flight, blurts out the last thing he really wants to say. 'I'll leave you two to it, yeah?'

Harry's head shoots up, searching out Zayn's eyes with that same hazy panic from moments ago, his words measured. 'You don't have to go.'

'It's all good,' he tells Harry, guilt lining his stomach thick and ugly even as the words pass his lips. 'I should probably get to work.'

Harry looks down at the cardigan in his hands, squeezing it in his fingers and going silent as his ears turn pink. Zayn feels sick at the thought that Harry might be humiliated because of him. It takes Harry a long, torturous moment, but he finally looks up and nods, clearing his throat.

'Sure, yeah, m'sure you have loads to do. Thanks for coming along, anyhow. I appreciate it.'

Zayn feels a bit numb at the platitudes, but he accepts them anyway with a nod of his own. He takes the stairs two at a time on his way down, dismissing the punishing _thump thump thump_ of his heart as he steps outside into a cool drizzle. He pulls his hood up against the rain, lighting a cigarette as he makes the journey back to the tube alone.

 

***

 

Louis has to beg Zayn to come.

Zayn can't explain just how bad of an idea it is without giving away too many secrets that don't belong to him alone. He claims sickness and looming deadlines, but Louis won't have any of it. He's just been promoted at his part-time job, apparently -- Zayn has been a terrible friend, so out-of-the-loop and self-involved, and he makes a pact to change that as soon as his world stops spinning. Louis wants to get twatted with all his favourite people, according to several phone calls Zayn has received, and that 'bloody well includes your ugly mug, Bradford, so bring your bird and shut up about it.'

Zayn relents, if only because he can't say, 'Sorry mate, I massively fucked up by getting off with one of our best mates whilst dating someone else and now he won't take any of my calls or answer any of my texts and I might be wrong, but I've got a feeling he's not exactly shitting himself to see me at the moment.'

That wouldn't cover the fact Zayn's been avoiding being alone with Marissa all week, or the fact that he barely remembers what it's like to sleep more than a few consecutive hours a night without the help of a pill. It wouldn't cover the fact he's been smoking nearly two whole packs of Marlboros a day now, lighting one with the butt of the other until his throat feels like it might collapse.

He arrives at the club a few hours late, giving himself enough time to smoke a bowl at home first, a pathetic attempt at dampening his nerves that only partially works. The club is the kind of place that looks perpetually new, with white leather booths lining the walls, roped off VIP sections in the back and a crammed dance floor disappearing underneath the consistent flash of strobe lights.

Predictably, the boys seem to be well on their way to pissed when Zayn arrives, boisterous and loud where he spots them crowded together on the edge of the dance floor. Zayn steels himself for a bout of social interaction after having hidden himself away in his own flat for so long. He makes his way through the stubborn crowd toward them, and cruel as the universe is, his gaze catches Harry's first. The intensity of it -- pinched brows, pursed mouth, the only one of the boys not smiling -- all but sets his insides ablaze. 

Zayn's never seen Harry angry before. He's seen him upset, overwhelmed, torn apart, but this is probably the closest to angry he's ever looked. Before Zayn can give him a look that says something like _please, just listen_ , Harry averts his eyes and says something to Louis, making Zayn's stomach twist with dread. Within the span of a blink, Harry squeezes away from the boys and makes his way towards the bar, blatant in his intentions to avoid Zayn.

The boys seem oblivious to any tension when Zayn sidles up to them. He tries to appear composed as he presses against Liam’s back with a wide smile, squeezing his shoulders as they all cheer in inebriated greeting. Niall graciously offers him the rest of his pint and Liam pulls him closer into their circle with an arm around his neck, but Zayn’s mind is on Harry the entire time, impatient in his need to speak to him. He listens to one of Louis' over-exaggerated stories that he always, without fail, retells when he's drunk. Louis gets stroppy if anyone reminds him that he's told this one before, so Zayn nods in all the right places and, honestly, laughs from his gut despite having heard it before; he high-fives Louis and says ‘safe, bro’ at the end for good measure.

With Harry so close, though, Zayn feels shifty and restless, and he doesn’t last long before breaking away. It takes all of five minutes before he excuses himself with the promise of buying them all a round of shots and makes his escape towards the bar, searching for Harry’s slender frame and mop of messy hair, spotting him easily. It takes another few minutes to fight his way through the obnoxious blockade of people between them, but even when he’s stood right next to him at the bar, Harry doesn’t look over, making as if he’s not even there.

'Harry,' Zayn calls over the music.

Harry looks further the other way, running a hand through his tangle of curls and tugging them aside.

' _Harry,_ ’ Zayn repeats himself, louder. ‘Will you please stop ignoring me?'

It takes a minute, but Harry shrugs, languid as ever, and meets Zayn's gaze with a maddening air of nonchalance.

'Have I been?' he asks, sounding bored. 'Sorry, mate. I hadn’t noticed.'

Zayn wants to retch. He can hear the malice behind the words, and it's so uncharacteristically ugly coming from Harry that he can't bear it. He wants to shove him in the chest and tell him to never call him that again.

'You haven't picked up my calls or answered my texts, _mate_ ,' he spits back. 'I've been trying to get a hold of you since bloody last week--'

'Where's your girlfriend?' Harry interrupts. He looks out over Zayn's shoulder, gaze obviously searching for something, and then meets Zayn’s eyes again. 'I didn't see you walk in with her. Was hoping to say hello.'

Zayn squares his shoulders, remaining silent as a sudden wave of guilt settles heavily in his stomach.

'Right,' Harry says, the bravado of his tone wavering and making way for something more fragile as he nods. 'So she _is_ still your girlfriend, then?'

'Harry--'

Harry shakes his head, leaving Zayn to stare at him in profile. There's a tremble to his voice that he seems adamant to clamp down on. 'Did you -- d’you at least tell her what happened? Tell me you at least told her what happened, please.'

Zayn's head spins for the right thing to say, but all he can manage is, ‘I didn't want to hurt her.'

Harry nods slowly, quiet for a long time as he looks out into the distance. He finally meets Zayn's eye again and shrugs. 'We wouldn't want anybody getting hurt, now, would we?'

Zayn's chest tightens, scanning Harry’s face with apologetic eyes.

'Haz,' he breathes. 'I've been trying to ring you all week. I haven't been able to stop thinking about what happened. The last thing I want is for you to be hurt.'

Harry sniffles sharply like he's fighting against emotion, but his voice is tellingly rough when he says, 'Don't. No, let’s -- let’s not.'

‘Harry, c’mon. We have to talk about it.’

‘We really, really don’t,’ Harry interjects, clearing his throat. ‘Mistakes happen and I was yours, yeah? It doesn’t have to be more than that.’

‘Harry--’

Before Zayn can even catch his breath, someone accosts him from behind, arms wrapping around him and pushing him against the counter.

‘What the fuck’s taking you so long?’ Niall demands. ‘Have you even ordered yet? Jesus fucking Christ, Zayn.’

Harry slinks away from the bar, drumming his fingers against it once. ‘Be back in a minute, yeah? Loo.’

Zayn wants to beg him to stay, to have this conversation with him, but he can’t, not with Niall pressed against his side and yelling down the counter for the barkeep’s attention. He watches Harry disappear into the crowd and wills his heart to slow down.

\--

Liam is the first to leave the club. He claims he has to be up at a decent time for a personal training session, and no one argues, because Liam rarely lies about that sort of thing. 

Louis leaves soon after with Eleanor, this round-faced pretty girl who, by Louis' own admission, is far too smart for him but likes him anyway. The two had been snogging heavily before they'd gone off together, to the point where Zayn could see Louis sporting a semi against Eleanor's thigh just as Eleanor's cheeks had started to go a hectic pink. It had made something clench in Zayn's chest to see them touch each other so recklessly, right where he could see.

Niall sticks by Zayn's side at the bar, matching him drink for drink until Zayn's vision starts to go blurry around the edges. Zayn keeps drinking even when Niall throws in the towel and leaves him with an empathetic pat to the back and a 'pace yourself, mate.' To his credit, Zayn takes his advice, nursing a glass of water when his head starts to spin.

The problem is that, even once everyone else has left, Harry’s still bloody there. The sight of him comes in and out of Zayn's vision when Zayn turns his back to the bar counter, facing the dancefloor. Harry disappears and reappears between swarms of people, with someone who isn't Zayn pressed against his back, a hipster-ish type of bloke who's stylish in a conventional, effortless sort of way. Not-Zayn is moulded completely against Harry's spine, their hands intertwined and outstretched by their sides as they move their hips together to a dancehall song Zayn's heard before, the filthy beat of it driving their every synchronized move.

Even from the safe distance of the bar, Zayn can guess how much Harry is enjoying himself by the way he occasionally knocks his head back against the bloke's shoulder for a kiss. Zayn feels an immense sort of sadness swell in his chest at the sight of him. There's a brand of intimacy that Harry can have with anyone -- any stranger, any person he chooses, any human who's lucky enough -- that’s all-consuming, indecent in a way that makes anyone else looking in feel like a voyeur.

Harry catches Zayn's eye as he brings the bloke's hands to rest on his stomach. He keeps their fingers there, curling intimately into the fabric of his shirt, his breath hitching. He looks increasingly sweaty and flushed and dazed and _not his, not his, not his_ , until Zayn can't bring himself to stand there anymore, the ground threatening to crack beneath him.

He downs the last of his water and barely manages to set the glass back on the counter soundly before he pushes himself off the bar, making his way to the toilets in a haze, his sense of touch guiding him.

He walks into the last stall and yanks the door shut behind him, but it swings on its hinges with impact. He has to lean back against the tiled wall to keep from shaking. He squeezes his eyes shut, holding his ears in his hands and trying to get his breath back when a sudden whiff of booze-soaked sweetness surrounds him, sending his head into a tailspin.

He blinks his eyes open and nearly goes cross-eyed with how close Harry is to him, his large hands holding onto Zayn's hips and pressing him back against the wall. Harry's face is pale and his eyes are searching and intense, like he's trying to see if Zayn's okay or something equally as unbearable.

Zayn shoves him away with every ounce of strength in his body, which doesn’t amount to much in his state. Harry staggers back in slow-motion, too strong to be truly caught off-guard, but he still trips over his own feet and lands shoulders-first against the opposite wall.

Zayn can't stop himself from trembling, and the tremor bleeds into his voice when he speaks up.

'What's his name, then?'

Harry shakes his head slowly, looking like he’s struggling to keep up with the conversation already. He pulls his curls away from his face and sways closer to Zayn again, reaching up for him. 'Doesn't matter.'

Zayn stares at him sadly. 'What do you want from him? Do you want him to fuck you?'

Harry hums a negative, stepping in closer and closer like he owns the space that surrounds Zayn until he's right there against him and Zayn's resolve melts away, spills out of him like liquid. Harry wraps his arms around Zayn's neck, kissing his temple repeatedly with dry, soft lips before dropping hooded eyes onto Zayn's mouth, voice brimming with honesty. 'Just you.'

Zayn makes a small sound in the back of his throat and holds Harry close by the ribs. He can feel him -- right there against his thigh, the thick, unabashed line of his cock radiating a heady warmth. Zayn is kept sick by the reminder that he didn't do that to him. He wasn't the one working him up all night on the dance floor. He couldn't have been, even if he wanted to, even _though_ he wanted to -- not in front of everyone like that.

'Tell me,' Zayn murmurs desperately, staring at Harry's downcast eyes. 'Harry. Tell me, please. Do you wanna fuck him?'

Harry lifts his gaze onto Zayn's as he shakes his head. The sincerity radiating off of him nearly brings Zayn to his knees. He tightens his arms around Zayn's neck, bringing their mouths together without ever kissing him, just whispering softly like he's sharing a secret. 'I probably love you.'

Zayn feels his eyes well with tears, voice breaking down the middle. ' _Harry._ '

Harry kisses him gently. 'S’okay.' He presses his hardened length more firmly against Zayn's as if to prove a point. He rubs against him slowly, working up a lazy rhythm, his voice catching as he repeats, 'I don't wanna fuck him.'

Zayn lowers his hands from Harry's ribs to his arse, pulling him in tentatively closer and listening carefully to the way Harry's breath hitches at the change of angle. Harry keeps going, steadily rubbing against Zayn until Zayn's almost certain he can feel him leaking through denim. He goes dizzy with how much he wants to lay claim, to be the one who brings him apart, to erase every trace of the other bloke from his mind.

Harry squeaks when Zayn pushes him away gently by the hips, looking disoriented when he meets Zayn's eyes, but he gasps and cants his hips forward when Zayn's fingertips brush the head of his cock through his flies. Zayn undoes them unthinkingly and pulls the denim down Harry's arse, the rough fabric becoming tangled around the tops of his thighs along with his briefs.

'You, too,' Harry says softly, and it sounds like a request, but then he's making quick work of Zayn's jeans himself with long, fumbling fingers.

It isn't until the air hits the wet tip of his own cock that Zayn realizes just how hard he already is. Harry starts to wrap a hand around the both of them but, even through his breathless delirium, Zayn’s certain that’s not what he wants. He pulls Harry’s hand away by the wrist and shakes his head as he looks down between them, barely able to register the sight of their cocks touching. He wants to feel Harry, desperate for the texture of his ridged skin in the wet glide of his fist, needing to hold onto something solid. He reaches between their bodies and wraps his own hand around them, fingers trembling as they tighten their grip.

He's nearly certain Harry is going to collapse at the very first touch. He almost expects to crumble to the floor himself, the feel of Harry in his hand surreal and overwhelming. Harry slumps against him with his forehead to his, breathing against his mouth. Zayn wraps his free hand around the back of Harry’s neck as he begins to pump them steadily, unable to focus on any one sensation rushing through him. Harry's so wet he covers both of them with precome, and Zayn shivers with the realization that _that_ part -- that might've been his doing. That might've been because of him.

'Do you want him?' Zayn asks helplessly, adding pressure around their lengths and twisting his fingers over their slits. Harry keens what sounds like _nuh-uh_ as he arches forward, and Zayn can’t stop himself from asking again, mad with it. 'Do you want him? Do you want to fuck him?'

Harry shudders bodily where he's pressed up against Zayn, his breathing coming out chopped and thin against his lips, but he doesn't say a word.

Zayn kisses Harry’s upper lip, tasting sweat. 'Do you want him? Please tell me. Please tell me.'

'No,' Harry gasps, his hips jerking forward and his feet knocking against Zayn's. 'Just--just want you.'

Zayn all but sees white at the sound of the admission, starting to lose the rhythm he'd built as his own hips snap forward.

Harry keens and moves warm lips to Zayn’s, panting distantly into them. 'Gonna come for you.'

Zayn bangs his head back against the wall and thrusts into his own fist, his hot length slip-sliding against Harry's in a way that's almost intolerable. He loses track of himself as his release hits, tearing its way out of him with such force that it almost hurts, pulling a dry sob right from his gut. Before he can even come back to himself, there's a new spill of warmth over his sensitive cock and Zayn realizes with a moan that it's Harry, now -- Harry coming for him, coming on him, and it's so heady that Zayn worries he might lose consciousness.

They're stuck in place with some invisible force as the aftershocks wrack their bodies, merciless and unrelenting, Zayn’s grip going slack around them. The two of them form a useless heap against the wall, heavy and uncomfortable, their breaths loud in the space around them. It's everything Zayn has needed for too long now, his bones shifting into place for the first time all month, like the pieces of himself are melding back together.

Harry's the first of them to move, but only barely. He wraps long, sweaty arms around Zayn's neck and fits their foreheads together more firmly, exhaustion seeping into his voice when he murmurs, 'Don't leave.’

Zayn's stomach swoops. A fresh wave of guilt sneaks beneath his skin, and he curls weak fingers into Harry's back as he kisses the corner of his mouth. Harry hums and angles himself to catch Zayn’s lips in a proper kiss, and Zayn gives himself up to it without protest.

\--

Of all the things to do at 4am after getting off in a public washroom together, they buy a kebab skewer to share from a street vendor with whatever coins they have between them and eat it on the kerb. Zayn lets Harry have most of it, and when they're done, Harry sucks his fingers clean while Zayn wipes his own hands down with a napkin that's already a bit soiled with grease.

It happens by accident, after that, that they end up huddling together for warmth as they wait for their taxi to arrive. Harry sways closer and closer to Zayn with visible fatigue until he's just curled up inside of Zayn's jacket, arms wrapped around his waist and nose pressed into his neck, Zayn's hand cupping the back of his head protectively.

'You alright?' Zayn murmurs into his curls, and Harry nods his assent wordlessly and burrows closer. Zayn doesn't stop him, kissing the juncture between his neck and shoulder and pulling him in.

They stay just as near in the back of the cab, Zayn clasping Harry's hand in his lap and playing with the thick rings on his fingers, the night dead around them as they speed through neighbourhood after quiet neighbourhood, the rumble of the road beneath helping to soothe Zayn’s chest.

They change into sleep clothes when they arrive at Zayn’s, Harry taking his pick of clean boxer briefs from Zayn's drawer and forgoing a shirt altogether, Zayn opting for a worn t-shirt and boxer shorts. They both decide they're not ready for sleep, but they get into bed together to watch Misfits on Zayn's laptop anyway, Zayn with his back to the headboard and Harry with his head in Zayn’s lap.

Zayn's eyes start to droop during the second episode. He fights to stay awake, fingers keeping busy by winding and unwinding Harry’s curls. Robert Sheehan looks panicked on screen, but Zayn isn't sure why this time, the plot becoming lost on him long ago. When he glances down at Harry to see if he's doing any better, he finds that his eyes are fully closed.

'Harry.' He clears his throat when his voice rumbles with exhaustion.

Harry emits a nasally sound, making no move to open his eyes.

Zayn scratches his scalp, his eyes traveling along the contours of his face. He's got spots near his temple, his skin oily in the soft light of the computer, and his lashes are fluttering on his cheekbones like they’re restless. He's so bloody beautiful that Zayn aches with it.

'You fell asleep.'

Harry remains unresponsive save for his slowed breathing. Zayn's eyes stray back to the laptop as his fingers continue to their treatment of Harry's curls. As soon he starts to pay attention to the plot again, the beginnings of a second wind creeping up on him, Harry twists around, hauling himself up and shuffling into a sitting position with a heavy groan like it's taking him a load of effort just to move. He blinks his eyes open and looks at Zayn through thick lashes. After a moment, he lets his eyes fall back shut and drops his forehead to Zayn's as if he can't carry the weight of his own head anymore.

Zayn lets his eyes fall shut, huffing a soft laugh. 'C'mon. Sleep.'

'Nu-uh,' Harry mumbles lowly, words trailing off into a yawn that betrays him. He curls a hand where Zayn's throat and shoulder meet, running his thumbnail over his collarbone. 'M'fine for a bit longer.'

Zayn pulls his face back, eying him skeptically. 'You're half-dead, more like.'

Harry shrugs, but he doesn't deny it. He looks down to Zayn's lips and shudders like a chill has gone through him, the tremors obvious enough that even Zayn can feel them where they're touching. 

'You'll go back to ignoring this tomorrow,’ Harry says.

Zayn's heart sinks, and he's proud that he doesn't make a wounded sound in response. He swallows against the rising lump in his throat and looks at Harry's lips, his nose, his eyes. He wants to kiss every bit of his boyish face until the sadness clears from it, but he doesn't.

'I won't ignore you,' he promises softly.

Harry meets Zayn's eyes with a weariness in his own. He looks wise beyond his years as he cups Zayn's neck in his hand, thumbing his jawline and murmuring matter-of-factly, 'You've got a girlfriend.'

Zayn swallows again, but this time his throat only contracts further. He stares at Harry's mouth, and Harry pecks him gently like he knows that's what Zayn wants. He doesn't break away after, leaving their lips moulded together so they're breathing the same air, the taste of stale booze heavy on their tongues.

‘Zayn?’ Harry murmurs under his breath, so quiet that Zayn can barely hear him. ‘I don't really think my heart could bear it if you were with someone else, if I'm honest.'

Zayn shuts his eyes and shivers bodily at the admission. He feels like he's stuck in molasses, like everything is taking so long to formulate around him, even his own thoughts and feelings and reactions. He kisses Harry gently, but it barely registers against the sudden numbness of his own lips.

‘We should probably talk about this when it’s not so late,’ he suggests after a beat, nudging their noses together.

Harry hums in acknowledgement and nods, seemingly relieved that they don't have to have this conversation just yet. 

'Tomorrow?' he asks.

Zayn nods, kissing Harry again in reply. Tomorrow.

\--

Zayn wakes up to an empty bed.

The pillow by his is crumpled, and there's a single looped hair peeking out from underneath. He can hear movement from the kitchen that occasionally results in a loud clang and a series of hushed apologies, the kind of clumsiness that could only belong to one person he knows. He feels a warm tug in his chest at the memory of last night, falling asleep with an armful of solid Harry and a mouthful of his soft curls.

Zayn's isn't often happy with the tight space that his flat provides him with, but right in this moment, when it affords him a view of Harry ambling over to the sofa in nothing but his briefs, he forgets why he's ever complained.

Harry’s hair is messy and his waistband is askew, showing a bit more hip on one side than the other. He's holding a frying pan in one hand and a mug in the other. He doesn't seem to notice that Zayn is awake as he settles down on the sofa with his back to him, broad shoulders hunched and head ducked, making an endearingly obvious effort to be quiet. He doesn't even turn the television on while he eats.

'Thanks for the breakfast,' Zayn mumbles after a few minutes, making Harry whip his head around to look at him in surprise. He breaks into the sort of slow smile that makes Zayn's insides crumble.

'Come eat,' Harry replies, voice rumbly and sweet and deeper than usual, which means he can't have been up for long. 'Made you some.'

Zayn hums noncommittally and rolls onto his stomach, not quite ready to give up the warmth of his bed.

Harry looks back ahead, and moments later the television is on with the volume rising slowly.

'Come eat,' Harry repeats, this time with more conviction. 'Else it'll go cold, or I'll finish it all.'

Zayn grumbles begrudgingly but drags himself out of bed, shuffling over to the sofa and flopping down next to Harry in the centre of the three cushions, their thighs touching.

Like it’s nothing, like it’s an everyday occurrence, Harry presses a kiss to Zayn's shoulder before handing him the fork he was eating off of, going back to watching television as if he didn't just make Zayn's stomach swoop with an improbable combination of affection and anxiety.

'Have as much as you want,' Harry mumbles distractedly, eyes trained on the screen.

Zayn pokes around the frying pan. There's scrambled eggs and cooked beans and a triangle of halved toast, but Zayn's not too keen to eat, if he's honest. He has a bite of egg to be polite and hands back the fork while he's chewing.

'That's it?' Harry asks as he looks back at him.

'Not that hungry,' Zayn says, taking a swish of coffee from Harry's mug to wash the mouthful down. He regrets it instantly, remembering that Harry enjoys his coffee milk-flavoured and with a ton of sugar. He sets the mug back down, swallowing against the aftertaste like he's downing glass.

'You're disgusting,' he says, face crumpled in judgement. 'How can you even have it like that?'

'What?' Harry asks, brows furrowing as his eyes travel to his mug and back again, looking affronted. 'My coffee? S'really good with milk and sugar. Would be even better with a biscuit, but you don't have any, useless as you are.'

'You're so posh,' Zayn mutters, mostly to get a rise out of him.

Harry takes the bait and punches Zayn's arm, pushing him away. 'Stooop. Sorry I'm not all _mods and rockers_ like you.'

'Those were like, two distinctly different groups,' Zayn says, amusement coloring his tone. 'Please tell me you know that.'

'Shut up,' Harry mutters sheepishly, pushing the fork and pan away from the edge of the table, his cheeks pinking. 'You make me say stupid things because you're an idiot.'

Zayn huffs a laugh. He can't help but be endeared whenever Harry gets all stroppy and petulant. He reaches over and takes Harry's wrist, yanking him closer by it. Harry falls into Zayn's side comically, a small smile tugging his lips back upwards, and then, in the span of a heartbeat, Harry's fingers are slotting into Zayn’s as if they've done this a dozen times before, but the room goes suddenly still.

Harry looks down at where their hands are interlocked, biting his lip and twisting their wrists experimentally, seeming as if he's operating something fragile and breakable. Zayn thinks he probably is.

'You feeling alright?' Harry asks him, voice gone thoughtful.

Zayn casts his gaze downward. Harry's hand is warm but dry against his, and his nails are cut short and clean. Zayn has blue paint beneath two of his cuticles, though he’s not sure from when.

'S'normal to feel a bit weird at first,' Harry goes on. 'When you're doing something new.'

Zayn swallows hard. He thinks 'weird' doesn't cover it. He'd stayed up last night even after Harry slept, thinking about the strangest things. Little flashes from his childhood. Fights his mum and dad would have that rattled their whole house, sometimes. He thought about Marissa, too. He considered texting her right in the middle of the night to apologize for being such a coward. He fell asleep before he could, thankfully. He knows well she deserves more than that.

The silence stretches on for too long. Harry nudges their knees together, and the words come tumbling out past Zayn’s lips, slow and tentative.

'When I was growing up,' he says carefully, eyes fixed on their hands as he tries to keep the threat of a tremble from his voice. 'I was taught, like--that God's throne, you know. Actually physically shakes whenever a bloke's around another bloke, or whatever.'

Harry makes no move to interrupt him. Zayn thinks he can feel his own hand become warmer and a tad damp where it's being held.

'Someone like you, it's not the same,' he continues, feeling oddly detached from his voice. 'Like, maybe you'll tell your mum or dad that you want to be with another bloke and they'll be a bit upset about it. Or they'll need some time to get used to it, but like. If I tell my father, it might be the very last thing he'll hear from me, you know?'

Harry still doesn’t respond. Zayn flits his gaze upward uncertainly and sees him swallow, the shift of his Adam's apple visible. His eyes have gone suspiciously wet, but he keeps his composure in tact, and Zayn is glad for it. Any other day, he’d be fine with Harry falling apart on him, but he doesn't think he could handle piecing him back together today, not when he's feeling on the verge of breaking himself.

'What about your mum?' Harry asks, finally, voice catching on the last word. 'Would she be alright with it?'

'Don't know,' Zayn shrugs. 'I've never really thought about it. I always imagined it might just be easier to take it to the grave.'

Harry sniffles and nods. He furrows his eyebrows like he's trying to school his features into something more neutral for Zayn's benefit. 'Makes sense.'

Zayn studies Harry's face curiously. 'And you? Your parents were okay with it?'

Harry shrugs, dropping his head. His curls are in his face, now, and Zayn wants to push them away so he can see his eyes, but he allows him a moment to shield himself in whatever way he needs to.

'More or less,' he says eventually, sounding a bit ashamed and faraway.

Zayn holds his breath, then lets it free on a drawn-out, shaky exhale.

'The thing is, like...' he starts, gathering his thoughts and sifting through them. 'I know what people will think of you and I. And when I'm with you, or whatever -- I'm terrified out of my sodding mind, you know? But then I know it's not by accident. It's such a stupid thing to say, but. The way my body reacts to you, that can't really be accidental, can it? I was made by -- by God or whoever to feel this way about you.'

When Harry looks up, his face is stained with tears, lips pursed in a shaky line. He lets go of Zayn's hand so he can wipe the top of his cheeks furiously, sniffling back emotion before he clears his throat. He apologizes quietly as he tries to compose himself.

'S'alright, Haz, you’re fine,' Zayn says, running the back of his index finger over Harry’s jawline to cut off the path of a tear before dropping his hand away, his heart aching in sympathy. He lets Harry recover on his own time, patient and wordless, watching him closely.

'For what it's worth,' Harry says after a while, voice steady but thick with emotion. 'I think, like--I think we're very much on purpose, too.'

Zayn's chest clenches. The bittersweet combination of sadness and hope is almost too much. His hand feels suddenly empty now that Harry's has left it, and it hits him like a pile of bricks, the realization a bit too vicious in the wake of Harry’s words.

'I can't hold your hand in public,' he says, his eyes focused on a tear track down the side of Harry's nose. 'And I don't even know if I could bear admit it to the people we know. I've barely had time to admit it to myself.'

Harry’s breath hitches. 'I wouldn't ever ask that of you, Zayn. Not now, anyway. There’ll be time for all of that, won't there?'

Zayn doesn't respond. He looks away, staring unwatchingly at the television. He wants to tell Harry that he isn't sure the right moment will ever arrive, but he stays quiet, failing to muster the courage.

'When I was with Damien, everyone knew we were together,' Harry says after a stretch of silence, forcing Zayn’s gaze back to his. 'But, like. No one even really knew how bad things were between the two of us, not until you found me in that bathroom, tweaked out of my mind. And, like. I'm a very open person, I think. But that doesn't mean I don't have bits that I like to keep to myself. The worst and the best things that happen to me, those are the things that I want to keep right near my heart.' 

He's rubbing his chest like it aches, like he's soothing a bruise, and Zayn knows for certain exactly how that feels. Harry doesn't seem like he's going to say anything else, but then he shrugs and adds, 'And I can feel you, you know? You're right there, right up against it.'

Zayn can handle the heart-shattering pain of denying himself what he wants, but he struggles knowing that Harry’s in the same boat, feeling the same ache. He wants to tell him _I can feel you nearly everywhere_ but he can’t bring himself to, not when he keeps imagining Marissa sitting on her bed with her books and her reading glasses on, oblivious to all of this, waiting for Zayn to text.

'I'm gonna fucking break her heart, you know,' Zayn utters, because it’s all he can think of.

Harry nods slowly, looking down into his lap. He seems regretful and sheepish, like he’s the one who’s done this to her and Zayn, and that’s not fair. Zayn doesn’t think anyone’s to blame but himself.

'I reckon you might break a lot of hearts,' Harry says, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and swallowing. 'But maybe, like. Maybe you'll get the chance to actually feel something real with yours, you know? And you deserve that, Zayn.'

Zayn doesn't nod or agree that he knows what Harry's talking about, that he deserves anything at all, even if the words nestle right inside of his chest, festering and pulsing and impossible to ignore. 

He picks up the fork from where it's been abandoned in the frying pan, eying it blankly for a long moment as he twirls it between his fingers. He holds it out to Harry. 

'Should probably finish your breakfast,' he says.

Harry hesitates for too long but finally takes the fork from Zayn's fingers. He doesn't use it, setting it back aside gingerly and sliding his fingers into Zayn’s instead, sniffling as he squeezes his hand. 'Okay.'

Zayn's chest clenches, eyes dropping to their hands. 

'I'm going to talk to her,' he murmurs. 

Harry nods. 'Okay.' 

'Haz?' Zayn asks after a while, meeting his eyes.

Harry takes a shaky breath, holding it inside. 'Yeah?'

Zayn bites his lip, scanning his face. 'What did you break in my kitchen earlier?'

Harry widens his eyes, huffing out an incredulous laugh before shaking his head. 

'Jesus,' he releases under his breath, looking like he’s struggling to slip into a lighter line of thought. 'Um. Another mug. Sorry.'

Zayn cracks a soft smile, barely resisting the urge to lean in for a kiss.

'Useless,' he says, but finds that he means exactly the opposite.

\--

Zayn rips another sugar packet, dumping its contents out onto the tabletop. He uses the cup of his palm to drag the little crystals into a small, tidy hill in front of him, then disturbs the middle of it with his fingertip. He swirls his finger around and around so that he's carving out circles, mesmerized by the motion.

'Are we that bored, love?'

He looks up quickly, flushing pink upon seeing the waitress has returned with her creatively-worn hijab; she's got it tied to the side of her neck in a bun, and Zayn can't help but think that if Doniya ever started wearing one, she'd do it like that, too. She’s carrying his coffee, so he scoots backward to give her room to set the mug down, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

'Cheers,' he says. 'And sorry. I'll clean this before I go.'

She smiles one of those wide, toothy smiles that make Zayn itch for a paintbrush.

'You're fine,' she assures him. 'Just don't go squeezing shapes out with the honey, yeah?'

He laughs in agreement, and she winks at him before she walks away. He clears the sugar onto a napkin, carefully dragging it to the edge of the table and into the tissue. He crumples it up when he's done and squeezes it between the salt and pepper shakers, a temporary solution to keep it from unraveling.

'Sorry, sorry,' comes a familiar voice from behind him, and Zayn's breath catches as he dusts off his hands. He turns his head to catch sight of Marissa apologizing again and patting a man's shirt down with her sleeve, clearly trying to help him with a coffee stain she'd created.

She makes a bigger mess of it, from what Zayn can see. She eventually gives up and comes over to Zayn's table with a soft groan.

'I'm such an idiot,' she sighs, setting her bag down in the booth opposite him before sliding in and eyeing his coffee with a wince. 'Sorry, love, am I late? I thought we'd said 2:30--'

'You're not, no,' he interjects, holding onto his neck with both hands, elbows to the table. 'You're not late, or an idiot.'

'Okay,' Marissa says, disentangling herself from her cross-chest bag and studying Zayn's face carefully. 'Something's the matter.'

Zayn drops his head, raking his fingernails through his short hair. He's quiet for lack of courage to speak, but the restaurant is still loud and bustling around them, clearly oblivious to the enormity of their impending conversation.

Marissa touches her fingers to Zayn's elbow on the tabletop, her fingers cold and dry.

'Hey,' she murmurs.

Zayn lets his eyes fall shut. He thinks of the last time the two of them were alone and aches with it. It was on her sofa, with her hands holding onto his face and his breath coming out hot against her mouth. They'd kissed for ages, but he couldn't get hard for the life of him. He'd blamed it on exhaustion. She kissed his nose and said she didn't care, that there were other things they could do, but he could feel everything around them go thin and brittle.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and exhales. 

'I'm so sorry, Mari.'

'Zayn,' she says, her voice firm but with an uncertainty to it. 'You're worrying me. Could you just maybe tell me what you're on about, please?'

Zayn drops his hands from his face, curling them around his coffee mug and staring down at it.

'Zayn,' she repeats.

In the hysteria of the moment, he’s worried about how hard his chest is rising and falling. He can’t stop worrying that he’s breathing too visibly and too loudly -- that his inhales and exhales are making obvious noises and that his chest is heaving erratically. He wants to say something meaningful, but all he can do is stare at his coffee mug.

Marissa's fingers twitch where he can still see them in the periphery of his vision, and then she curls them into a weak fist and retracts them toward her.

'Fuck,' she murmurs after a beat, sounding breathless but resigned. She doesn't seem angry, but she does seem knowing, and that's what makes Zayn finally look up at her. He'd come prepared to deal with fury, but her eyes are subdued, and that panics him more than anything. She looks at Zayn's lips and they burn instantly under her attention. 

'Is it Harry?'

Zayn feels the blood drain from his face like it’s being syphoned out of him. His veins run cold in tortuously gradual increments. There's an unpleasant tingling to his neck and right behind his ears that he wants to scratch desperately, but his hands won't move.

'What do you mean by that?' he asks thinly, just to break the silence. His voice sounds unconvincing, even to his own ears, and he hates himself for always being such a coward.

'Don't take me for an idiot, please.'

Zayn keeps his eyes on her face for a few more beats, trying desperately to keep up the act for a while longer, but he can’t. He can feel his insides bristling and his outsides crumbling. He lifts his hands back to his eyes, digging his fingertips into his scalp. He feels a bit dizzy at the thought of someone noticing Harry and him. He wonders if anyone else has caught on to it and swallows against the resulting lump in his throat. 

'Fuck,’ he hisses.

' _Zayn_.’

He huffs a humourless laugh, feeling a dull hysteria ringing in his ears. He can’t bring himself to say anything or meet her eyes. The tension between them is thick and unrelenting. Zayn half-expects her to just grab her bag and go. He counts the seconds as he waits for it, dreading the silence.

'You know, when I came over the other day, and you were in the shower, I went to use your laptop,’ she says finally, her voice shaking and laced with regret. ‘Only when I opened it, there was a video. Of two boys together.'

Zayn's proud of himself for not making a sound with how sick he feels. He wants the earth to swallow him up, or for him to be able take back this conversation and go back to pretending nothing's changed.

'I didn't know what I wanted,' he says distantly. 'You have to believe me, Mari-’

‘Don’t fucking call me that,’ she whispers, barely audible. He can hear the emotion in her tone, now. There’s this breathless heartbreak colouring her voice and it’s so much worse than the anger.

He forces himself to lower his hands back around his mug and look up at her, meeting her eyes. There are tears in them as she gnaws at her bottom lip, getting purple lipstick on her teeth. She lets her lip go with a shivery laugh as she looks away and dabs at her cheek with her sleeve, hiccuping once as she tries to catch her breath.

'The stupid thing is that I had this gut feeling but I told myself you wouldn’t put me in that situation,’ she says. ‘I thought -- I mean, I knew something wasn’t right, but I just. I couldn’t believe you’d be that cruel. I thought, no. Zayn -- Zayn would say something. Zayn wouldn’t keep something like that from me.’

‘Marissa. I just wanted to be sure--’

‘I’m so glad you’re sure now,’ she interrupts, looking back at him with an ugly smile. ‘I’m so glad you’ve got it all figured out. Thank you for letting me know. Really, it’s just so kind of you to have let me in on this.’

‘Mari,’ he pleads. ‘Mari, please.’

She sniffles and grabs her messenger bag viciously, pulling it over her shoulder as she slides out of the booth. She sucks in a deep breath like she’s trying to collect herself. Her mascara has started to gather a bit beneath her eyes, and he wants to wipe it away for her.

‘I’m sorry this has been hard for you,’ she says, voice impossibly strained with emotion. ‘But I wasn’t some test guinea pig that you could experiment with until you figured out what you really wanted.’

‘Mari--’

‘I’ve got to go,’ she whispers, fidgeting with the cross-strap of her bag, pulling it up and then down between her breasts. ‘I’ve got to go.’

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, entirely too demure for the situation they’re in, and then turns on her heels and walks away from his table. He feels winded in the aftermath of her swift departure, the smell of her still strong around him. 

He fixes his mouth in a straight line and stares down at his coffee mug. He squeezes it between his fingers like he's trying to break it. It stays solid in his grip no matter how much pressure he applies until he finally gives up, letting his fingers go lax as resignation takes over his bones, an unexpected warmth filling his own eyes. He stays still for the longest time, numb and motionless. He leaves his waitress everything he has in his wallet before he goes.

 

***

 

‘Well, well, look who it is,’ Louis calls out, his greeting nearly lost amongst all the other noise. 

He’s stood off to the the side of the bottlenecked queue, surrounded by Niall and Liam. Not for the first time, Zayn is hit with the realization that he’s always the last of them to arrive anywhere, even when he thinks he’s going to arrive early enough to impress.

‘’Ello, Bradford!’ Niall crows in greeting as he claps him between his shoulderblades, sliding his hand up to squeeze the back of his neck. His cheeks are this bright, happy sort of red that suggests pre-drinking had gone according to plan. They all smell vaguely of booze, actually. Zayn has only just gotten out of the bookstore, taking the tube straight over. He’ll have to catch up once they’re inside.

‘It’s Bradfordt now, innit? Beyoncé has spoken and all that,’ Liam adds, not looking up from his phone.

‘Knobhead,’ Zayn mutters fondly, ashing his cigarette before he nods to the entrance. ‘Massive turnout, though, yeah? Sick.’

‘All for our young Harold,’ Louis agrees in an exaggerated sigh. He regards the line-up with a look that suggests the sentiment isn’t completely void of real pride.

‘And for charity,’ Niall burps as an afterthought. ‘All the proceeds are going to a relief programme or some such, aren’t they?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Louis rolls his eyes, looking back at them as if he’s reciting a mantra. ‘Harry’s an amazing person, none of us will ever live up with our terrible trash selves, so on and so forth. We’ve learnt it all by heart, thanks, Anne Twist.’

‘Should we get to the back of this queue, then?’ Liam asks, eyebrows crumpling as he pushes up to his tiptoes and surveys the cluster of people surrounding the entrance, presumably so he can estimate how long the wait will be. Zayn follows his vision and guesses they’ll be out here for another ten, fifteen minutes tops, which will allow him another nervous cigarette at the very least.

It’s not that he’s actively anxious about being here tonight, it’s just that it’s only been three weeks since he’d broken up with Marissa. The dust has only just begun to settle in his mind, the guilt ebbing and flowing inside of him every time he remembers her face that day. Things are still sensitive, like a healing wound you shouldn’t touch, and Zayn has always been the impatient kind who’ll peel his scabs until they’ve scarred.

In the end, they’re stood outside for nearer to twenty minutes than ten, and a bloke in braces and a handlebar mustache lets them through the door after taking two quid off of each of them and stamping the backs of their hands for re-entry. They haven’t all been out as a group in a while, him and the boys. Exams were a timely distraction but they made it harder than usual to be sociable, and this is the first proper hang-out where it’s not just two or three of them meeting up, but all five at once.

The venue isn’t completely packed, but the crowd isn’t sparse, either, filling up the space quite impressively for a small local show. Zayn spots Harry and his seasonal bandmates setting up the stage underneath a few shoddy red and white lights at the front of the room. Kojo is already sat behind his drum set, Jordy tuning his guitar, Oliver tweaking something on his keyboard pedal and Harry crouched so he can secure some wires with purple gaffer tape. He's notorious for tripping over absolutely nothing on the best of days, and he doesn’t need the added risk of stray wiring tonight.

Zayn and the boys do a couple of shots as they wait for the show to start. It’s two rum and cokes later on Zayn’s part that the guitar gives a piercing squeal and the music roars into life, prompting them to turn around in the direction of the noise and lean their backs against the counter to watch. There’s no grand introduction or hype-up. The band just smashes into a rowdy song that shakes through the ground in this deafening sort of way, the mood in the entire place shifting to something electrifying.

Zayn’s breath catches at the sight of Harry up there, an unattested beast on the stage, even if he doesn’t do this often. It’s almost too much, watching him curl long fingers around his microphone, adjusting the height of his stand even as he angles it forward with his weight, his face clouding with emotion. Zayn watches as Harry closes his eyes and grit his teeth, his voice nearly lost in the rumble of drums and feedback of the guitar. The most painful part, though, is when Harry laughs and flutters his eyes open moments later as someone yells that he’s fit, his dimple deceivingly deep in the harsh shadows of the stage. He’s beautiful, is the thing, so lively and so talented and just out of reach, making Zayn’s fingers itch.

The show thunders on at full-force. Any starts and stops that happen are quickly forgiven by the crowd, eaten up by the raw energy. Harry leans over the right side of the stage, the one closest to the bar, and he belts these out-of-range notes that are sure to strain his vocal chords, his voice rasping and breaking around certain words and making Zayn’s throat tingle in sympathy. 

When Harry straightens up in his spot and sees the lads, his face absolutely lights up, a dopey grin colouring his voice even mid-song. Niall sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles obnoxiously, Louis yells for Harry to ‘get in, Styles!’ and Liam just laughs and salutes him. For his part, all Zayn can do is bite his lip and scan Harry’s face with a reverent smirk of his own, his heart aching like it’s been physically struck by the sight of him.

It really is a bit too much, if he’s honest. Zayn is so worked up by the end of the set, his chest in knots over Harry’s rocky voice and big smiles and confident stage presence, that he can barely stay to watch him him pack up the equipment with the rest of his bandmates. He brandishes his pack of smokes, leaving the venue and rounding the corner to the alleyway to sit by the bins. He sits with his back to the brick wall and waits for the message he knows is coming, his phone buzzing when he’s halfway through his fag.

 _Outside?_ it reads.

He clenches the cigarette between his teeth while he types -- _Alley, near the rubbish bins by the fence._ \-- then pockets his phone and pulls the fag away between the web of his fingers.

Harry comes out a few minutes later looking a tad out of breath still, his hair tied off his face with a patterned scarf as he glances around for Zayn. His face breaks into a lazy smile when their eyes meet, and he ambles over in his all black outfit, suede boots cracking against the gravel. Zayn laughs under his breath at the sight of him, stubbing his cigarette out on the ground by his hip.

Harry lowers himself next to Zayn, pulling his legs up toward his body, the ripped denim tightening over both his knees. ‘Hi.’

‘You’re ridiculous,’ Zayn smirks, settling an upturned hand on the ground between them, heart pounding when the warm, familiar slide of Harry’s own fingers slots into his. 

‘I try,’ Harry says, knocking his knee against Zayn’s and keeping it there. ‘How was it? Did you like us?’

Zayn squeezes his hand. ‘You were pretty amazing.’

‘Was only alright,’ Harry hums. ‘Could’ve been better, I reckon. I think I should maybe not have so much whiskey before I go on stage, should I?’

‘S’pose you shouldn’t,’ Zayn agrees. ‘You were no, like, Frank Ocean. But you’ll get there in a few decades.’

Harry squawks, eyebrows furrowing as he glances at Zayn’s lips. ‘And m’sure Frank Ocean is going to come home with you tonight and give you plenty of blowjobs, is he?’

Zayn rolls his eyes, stroking the back of Harry’s hand with his thumb. ‘If he lived in London. I could probably at least get a helping hand off him.’

‘Does it ever get tiring, having such a big ego?’

Zayn ignores him, eyeing his lips. ‘You really should take it easy on some of those notes, babe. You’re gonna hurt yourself if you push too hard.’

‘It was all for a good cause,’ Harry says, the residual rasp in his voice confirming Zayn’s concerns. ‘I just got really into it, I think. I’ll have a lemon tea later. We can stop at Sainsbury’s on the way to yours, yeah?’

Zayn nods. ‘We can, yeah. But y’should get back inside for now. M’sure all the lads want to shower you with even more whiskey.’

‘Mhm,’ Harry preens, seeming pleased with the prospect of being celebrated like a rockstar, but then his face clears as he glances between Zayn’s lips and his eyes. ‘Was it alright, though?’

Zayn rolls his eyes. ‘Told you already, you were amazing.’

‘No, like,’ Harry adds, looking down at their joined hands. ‘Was it alright, all of us being together and like -- you and I. Being together, you know. Was -- was it too much, or was it alright?’

Zayn takes a breath. Up until tonight, it’s just been the two of them going back and forth between each other’s places, doing the same things they’ve always done with some added benefits. Zayn had been worried about tonight, if he's honest. It's their first proper gathering as a group since he and Harry shifted gears. It isn’t terrible, all things considered. It still feels strange and a bit unsettling to know they’re keeping this life-altering secret, a truth that’s constantly simmering beneath Zayn’s skin, and that they could be found out any second if they’re not careful enough. But even though Zayn spent a good portion of the night schooling his face in case he was being too obvious staring at Harry, it never felt like anything less than worth it.

‘Was good,’ Zayn tells him quietly. ‘Wasn’t too much, no. And I quite liked knowing we’d get to do this after.’

Harry breaks into a tentative smile. He angles his body toward Zayn’s, his eyes falling shut as he drops their foreheads together. ‘Good.’

Zayn’s gaze goes soft and thoughtful as he takes in Harry’s face up close, breath hitching at their proximity. He closes his eyes, lifting his free hand to curl it against Harry’s neck, thumb pressed behind his ear as he urges him closer. He presses a warm kiss to Harry’s lips, allowing it to linger for as long as they can both manage. He doesn’t think about when they’ll have to break away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. You can find me on Tumblr [here](http://cantgetnoworseee.tumblr.com). Feedback is always incredibly treasured. ♥


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